


Linger

by xlydiadeetz



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Challenges, Childhood Friends, Drama & Romance, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, Games, Illegal Activities, M/M, Minor Violence, Mischief, Other, Slow Burn, The Abuse doesn't happen in this one and The Regent doesn't exist, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, way too many references to 80s and 90s music
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:42:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 149,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25207165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xlydiadeetz/pseuds/xlydiadeetz
Summary: Laurent and Damen play a game of dares. But the only way of winning is to aim for the heart.
Relationships: Damen/Laurent (Captive Prince)
Comments: 270
Kudos: 124





	1. Act I: Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The fiercest anger of all, the most incurable, is that which rages in the place of dearest love."
> 
> \- Euripides

> _"When you are falling in love it is always already too late: dēute, as the poets say."_
> 
> \- Anne Carson

ONE DAY…

_He made himself not look back. Even as he felt a chill down his spine and the sudden wrongness deep in his heart that it was not how the story should go._

_But he was proud, and as angry as he was sorry. And he couldn’t understand nor forgive so the easiest thing to do was to leave._

_Laurent made himself not look back, even as his eyes filled with tears and his breath escaped his lungs and his fingers dug into the metal box in his hands, hoping and wishing he could just open his palms and let it go._

_Praying it could be destroyed and leave him alone. Or perhaps take him back to a different time where he had yet to make so many bad choices. Where they could begin again._

_And in that lifetime, he wouldn’t be walking away but forward. And it wouldn’t be a dare, nor a challenge or an act of revenge._

_It would all have been a children’s game._

_And it wouldn’t have mattered at all._

***

RIGHT NOW...

For a whole minute, the only sound was that of the clock on the wall. The constant ticking echoed and made him nervous, but he forced his mind to reign over. If he fucked up now, there’d be a mess, possibly some blood and a few too many repercussions he was not interested in.

His brows furrowed as he fiddled with the screwdriver, in an attempt to figure out exactly what he was doing and how to get what he wanted without breaking the latch or stitching the glass.

He could feel the sweat beginning to damp his nape, then his armpits. His pulse quickened, and his hands shook with strain.

Laurent made a small sound of frustration and cursed the damn school uniforms for being heavy and warm and uncomfortably sticking to his skin.

Beside him, Aimeric shifted his weight anxiously, and held the ladder where he stood. He thought —well, prayed— for the life of him, that Aimeric’s innate fight-or-flight response was stronger than his poorly nurtured patience.

Technically, they should have been gone from school two hours ago. 

Officially, they were staying to use the library and research for a presentation.

Unofficially and literally, they were in one of the halls that lead to the gym, trying to steal a trophy. 

“Laurent.”

Damen had been very specific regarding the trophy; he asked for one of the old and big basketball ones from when he was a student, one coated in gold. The school’s pride and joy through the years. 

Absentmindedly, he hushed, “Stay quiet.”

_“Laurent.”_

He turned his head — Aimeric was biting his lower lip and he looked to be sweating too, although Laurent couldn’t tell why, considering he was the one doing all the physical work.

“ _What_?” He hissed, pointing the screwdriver at the dumbass of his so called friend.

Aimeric pushed the screwdriver away with a single hand movement, “We’re going to get caught if you don’t hurry up. ”

Rolling his eyes, Laurent said, “We definitely are if you keep on _talking_.”

“How is it going?”

“Oh it’s a walk in the park, thanks for asking.”

Scoffing, “No need to be rude.”

“Your own damn fault,” And then, tossing the screwdriver, “Pass me the blowtorch, will you?”

“We’re going to get expelled,” Aimeric whispered, but passed it to him anyway. 

By now, it was how things usually went between them. Laurent dragged Aimeric to whatever dare he had to complete, half because he made a very useful minion and half because he had gotten so used to having him around, it just felt wrong whenever they were not stupidly risking their academic lives together. 

It made it even more thrilling. 

And Aimeric always complained and talked shit —like now— but seemed so unbothered he wondered if Aimeric actually cared or was just putting up a show for the sake of pretenses. Either way, it was both annoying and hilarious and a sort of anchor to remind himself not to overdo it and blow up something in the process.

Accidentally, at least. 

With the blowtorch, Laurent snapped the small latch, then grabbed the melted metal with a wrench, victory chanting in his head, consequences following suit. He ignored them. “Have you ever heard that you attract what you think?” 

“That’s such bullshit. If that was the case, I would be in Malibu with a rich boyfriend” he said, distaste clear in his tone as he took back the blowtorch, “and not here helping you complete another one of your dares.”

“You can still do that when we graduate,” Laurent said, lifting the glass door carefully, one hand reaching inside the shelves to grab the metal statue. 

“ _If_ we graduate.”

“If _you_ pass your exams.”

“Oh fuck off.”

Grinning, Laurent wrapped his fingers around the statue and pulled it out of its place. It felt heavy on his hand and he fought back the urge to throw it in the air and catch it back. 

He, however, swung it playfully at Aimeric’s head, “Got it.”

Leaning back, “Yes, I’m not blind like you. Now, put the door back and let’s go.”

“What a sore ass you are today.”

“And what an insane bitch you have been, for the last four years.”

“‘Insane bitch?’ That one’s new.”

Ever so carefully, Laurent rearranged the rest of the trophies to disguise for their loss, and then put the door back in its place. He thought of the slightly churned latch and how to cover for it. He could keep it with him, perhaps, and then throw it away somewhere. Let the whole thing become someone else’s problem. 

And then there were steps. 

Slowly, they turned to look at each other. A scene from a horror film.

Before any of them could panic, Laurent jumped from the ladder, took it under one arm and grabbed Aimeric’s, dragging them both away of the sound. Slow steps became rushed and yet slightly constrained running as they struggled to make as little sound as possible. If they made it to the corner, there’d be a storage closet. And if they were lucky, said closet would be unlocked and a shelter from whoever was about to catch them stealing school’s property. 

If it was not, however, they were very fucked. 

Technically, officially and literally fucked. 

Upon reaching the closet, in one swift movement, Aimeric took a pin from his hair and split it open with his teeth. And faster than Laurent had seen him move in his life, he unlocked the door and grabbed him by the collar as they stumbled inside. 

It was so dark they could barely see each other, and it smelled of damp and dust and sweat and his nose prickled dangerously. He pushed the ladder against what he assumed was a wall and held a finger under his nose, mentally pulling himself away from the thought of _sneezing_ his whole graduation away. Next to him, Aimeric’s shoulders shook in what he assumed was laughter. 

“You had me sweating like a pig trying to snap that lock when you _knew_ how to unlock it all along?” 

“It’s the game you like,” Aimeric retorted, “remember?” 

Laurent pinched Aimeric’s arm hard, once, and the shaking stopped. 

As the steps grew closer, Laurent leaned over, trying to see through the only thin rack of light that entered through the door. At first he didn’t see much, but then the heeled steps grew louder until a figure turned the corner he and Aimeric had come from. 

“Shit.” 

“What?” Aimeric asked, trying to push him away from the rack, “Who is it? What do you see?”

“It’s Mrs. Hadleigh,” he whispered. The vice principal. 

The one who had always almost caught them doing everything but what they were supposed to. The one that had sent several letters to his house that Auguste always hid from their mother before she could read them. 

The one teacher who hated his guts since Damen had dared him to place a bucket of thick blue wall paint outside of her office, and who had ended up covered in such strong blue goo she had not been able to wash it off her hair for days. 

“Are you sure it’s her? Let me see.”

“Aimeric,” Laurent hissed, “stop pushing!”

Suddenly, the door came open and both of them stopped, frozen in their awkward positions side by side. 

The vice principal looked as confused as she was upset. “What on earth are you both doing here?” 

But before she could put two and two together, Laurent ducked and ran past her. To Aimeric, he said, “Run!”

So they ran. 

And because it was not the first time they were caught, they knew exactly what to do. They split, both going in complete opposite directions. Laurent usually took the long way, so the chaser would normally choose to go after Aimeric instead. 

“De Vere! Fortaine! Come back here now!”

He didn’t think the vice principal would chase him in _heels_ , but he didn’t want to stay long enough to be proven wrong. 

Laurent ran upstairs three floors, opening and closing the different doors that opened to halls with classrooms and labs and teachers rooms from different years. He held tightly onto his messenger bag, the trophy a heavy reminder of how stupid he was being and how much he was enjoying it. 

It was all for the game. 

It was all for Damen. 

Thinking of his name made him smile. Older, wiser Damen who loved getting him in trouble. If Damen dared Laurent for a star, Laurent would go through thunderstorms and deserts and climb all the tall towers to get one. 

He’d slay soldiers, poets and kings with no remorse or second thought. 

Then he’d dare Damen to steal it from him. 

_“De Vere?! What have I told you about running in the halls?!”_

Laurent pushed himself harder, his contained laughter bubbling as champagne in his insides. It was exhilarating and painful how badly he wanted to stop and breathe and laugh and throw up. 

Next time, he thought, he was making Aimeric take the long route. 

As he came past a new set of doors — administrative doors, he ran down. One, two, three, four floors down, the pain in his calves threatening to leave him on the floor any minute now. 

He was all sweaty now. Hair sticking to his face, slow drops sliding down his legs and his back. He felt it all too much — how _alive_ he was. All at once, he was aware of the entire world and it was overwhelming. 

Because he spent so much time within the borders of his own mind, sometimes he forgot it could all feel like _this_. 

Enhanced and messy. 

So fiercely devastating and real. 

When Damen and him were playing the game, he could imagine all the worst-case scenarios and still say yes. 

How sappy was that? How ridiculous? 

And he couldn’t stop, that was the worst part. 

He swallowed, trying to focus. His heart was hammering a hole in his chest and his eyes struggled to focus behind his glasses. In the distance, however, he saw the blurry vision of Aimeric waving from one of the emergency exists he had managed to pry open. 

_Just a little more._

Once through, the door shut close behind them and Laurent held himself onto the outside wall to not fall knees on the ground. In front of him, Aimeric was crouching and panting as well.

“I had to detour,” Aimeric said, catching his breath, “They let the dogs out early today.”

It broke him. The mental image of Aimeric being chased not by the vice principal but by her dogs made it all too funny to handle. He started to laugh, Aimeric following suit, first quietly and then openly; his stomach aching with the spasms. 

They laughed as they bumped their fists and drove back home and until they choked on their own spit. 

Enhanced and messy. 

And real. 

“How long do you think it’ll take them to realize it’s gone?” Aimeric asked.

“Do you wanna bet?”

“Three weeks?”

Laurent pondered on it, then shrugged, “Three days?”

“What do you plan to do with it anyway?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I’ll put it back.”

“I swear to fucking God,” Aimeric said, resigned, “I’m going to kill you.”

***

Damen and Laurent met at the place where they always did. 

Passing the city park, following the train tracks that led to a junkyard where Damen and Auguste usually went to swing bats at empty bottles when they had nothing better to do. It had been their favourite place growing up, but now they rarely ever went there.

Laurent had never been a fan. Partly because he was six years behind and because he preferred books to trashing trash for fun. Now, however, he found himself going often, if only just because it was the designated place to meet after a dare. 

Plus, he liked the train tracks. They reminded him a little of the kids from _Stand by Me_ , going on an adventure. 

By the time he got there, it was nearly sunset. The air was starting to become chillier, and he welcomed the coolness against his still sweaty skin. 

Not like his mother would agree. 

Damen was already there, sitting next to the tracks. He smiled upon seeing him approach and Laurent’s heart swung and dropped to his stomach. 

Sappy and ridiculous he had said. More like _helpless_. 

_Hopeless_. 

_Hopeless Laurent de Vere, cursed to feel what he mustn’t._

“I’ve brought your stuff,” Laurent said, in lieu of a greeting. 

Smiling still, “You sound like you’re about to sell me drugs.”

“You never know, maybe I am”

Laurent crossed his legs and sat next to Damen, nudging his shoulder and opening his messenger bag to reveal the trophy in all its splendor. 

And the carousel box. 

“Good job,” and then, “How’s Mrs. Hadleigh?”

“A pain in my ass. Although she runs very fast in heels.”

Damen laughed then, and _Laurent wanted to die, die, die._ he fought against every muscle in his face that wanted to curl his lips up into a smile, too. 

It looked so easy, to sit next to this person who made his insides collapse. Pretend that his organs didn’t clash against each other and mixed up whenever _he_ laughed like _that_. Pretend that when their knees touched, it didn’t burn through his clothes and left bruises on his skin. 

That it didn’t hurt nor mean anything. 

In the end, all they did was play a game. A simple game, an ambitious game. A force that kept pulling them together again and again — pieces on a chessboard, letters on a page. 

Years after years after years, seconds to minutes to weeks to months. 

All they did was play a game. 

Laurent found his voice again, subtly looking down at his shoes, “I don’t know why you asked me to steal that for you, considering you have tons of trophies and medals at home anyway.” 

“This one’s special though.”

He looked up then, finding Damen’s eyes at once. Shyly, he asked, “Why?”

“We won this one when we went to the finals,” Damen explained, “You were there to bring me luck. Don’t you remember?”

He did. He just assumed Damen didn’t, and that it had been a coincidence. But of course it wasn’t. 

Of course not. 

_Helpless Laurent de Vere, cursed to remember what he shouldn't._

Since he was a child, he had been collecting all these memories. Thinking, mistakenly, that they were his and his only. Thinking that it didn’t matter if his feelings and his thoughts made no sense so long as he could keep those fragments of a something in his mind. Stored away like valuable things, beautiful things protected from the fire. 

Why was the acknowledgment of a shared memory so brutally scary to him? 

Why did he care so much that it made it hard to breathe?

_You know why._

“I don’t,” he lied, although not sure to whom specifically. 

“Is that so,” Damen leaned back in his hands. The wind messed up his curls. Not like Laurent was watching. “What a shame. I recall it so clearly: how nerdy you looked carrying that book around.”

“Excuse me, sports aren’t nearly as intellectually challenging as any classic of russian literature might be.”

“Nerd.”

“Reading doesn’t kill you, you know? Although perhaps you might be the first.”

Damen’s smile faded a bit, “I wouldn’t say _reading_ would kill me, but one of my classes definitely would.” 

His heart flipped and fell with a thud, although he was the only one able to hear it, “What happened?”

Shrugging, “Nothing much, just a professor being super complicated and obnoxious and rude for no reason. It’s hard to dodge, sometimes, and my grades aren’t helping.”

“You should fuck them over.”

“Ha, yeah, funny, but I actually want to graduate you know.”

Laurent clicked his tongue, annoyance rapidly taking over, “Well, that’s very bold of you, considering I’m constantly getting in trouble at school _because of you_ and that this whole thing started because _you_ told me _I_ should get back at my bullies.” 

Damen scoffed, rolled his eyes a little, “Okay, that was way different. You wer—”

“No, it’s not,” he said, jumping to his feet at once, “If that professor is bothering you so much, then find a way to get back at him.” And then, he tossed the carousel box at him, “Game?”

Before Damen could say anything else, Laurent turned on his heels and started to walk away, if only feeling slightly victorious. 

_Two victories in one day._

What would Damen do? He couldn’t wait to find out. 

“Hey, Laurent!”

“Come on,” Laurent said, turning around and walking backwards, “You still owe me a slice of cake from that expensive bakery.”

***

“Where were you?”

The first thing he saw when entering his house, was a seemingly upset Auguste with his arms crossed. 

Laurent rolled his eyes, “Well, hello to you too, brother.”

“We’ve brought you cake,” Damen said, entering after him.

“The school called again,” Auguste said, “You should be thankful it was me who answered the phone and not mom.”

“Ah,” Laurent said, kicking off his shoes, “Thanks, Gus. That’s very nice of you.”

“I’ve told you not to call me that,” Auguste sighed, annoyed, “Anyway, what did you do this time? They told me they found you hiding in the janitor’s closet with Aimeric and then you both ran away, breaking another shit ton of rules for that, of course. And leaving everyone mildly concerned. ”

“Mildly concerned? Did they actually say that over the phone?”

“Laurent.”

He answered honestly, “I was stealing a trophy for Damen.”

Auguste turned to Damen then, arms crossed in his best paternal-figure pose. Damen just shrugged, as if saying, _‘it’s what we do.’_

“Okay, but that doesn’t explain why you were hiding in a closet with Aimeric. Are the two of you dating now?”

There was a sound then, and next thing they knew, Damen had tripped over his own feet while kicking off his shoes and the box of cakes they had brought ended up on the floor. 

Laurent wanted to laugh, but Auguste was still staring at him, waiting. 

Disgusted, “Don’t be gross, Gus. We hid because we heard someone approaching.”

Auguste hummed, as if believing him but not entirely. He then dropped his arms and scratched his hair, back to his normal not-replacing-dad kind of self, “Lo, I know the dares are fun and all, but they keep insisting on wanting to see mom. Don’t screw up now.” 

“I’m not an amateur, I know what I’m doing.” _Did he, though?_ “Plus, I know you want me to tell you the whole story.” 

His older brother smiled then, because no matter what Laurent did or didn’t do, Auguste wanted to know it all, if just for the sake of laughing at his childish adventures. 

“Should we have some cake, then?”

***

BACK THEN…

“Are you game?”

That was the spark to ignite the fire behind his eyes.

_Are you willing?_

_Are you brave?_

_Are you reckless?_

_How far are you willing to go?_

_How much do you trust me so?_

Laurent considered the question —and everything it entitled—for a full minute. If he said no, nothing would change — it wouldn’t take but it wouldn’t give. And the world would keep its course, drifting away from the opportunity he now held in his hands in the shape of a metal candy box.

It was a carousel, and he traced his fingers along the embossed white horses and the children riding them. A repetitive pattern all around it — a loop of bold, shiny colours that were too much to the eye. Beautiful, like the person who had given it to him.

A strangely pleasant eyesore.

Not like he’d ever admit that particular truth to anyone, not even his own tale-tell heart. But Damen had said the box to be a treasure.

So he held it carefully in his fingers, knowledge giving heavy weight to something so banal. A treasure.

His teeth tasted like blood and with his broken glasses he didn’t get the clearest view, but he could tell Damen was smiling at him, face all sun-kissed freckles and dimples.

It all started with a game, and a blond boy with a busted lip, wondering how to set the world on fire.

Laurent de Vere was thirteen years old and a target blank for bullies. He couldn’t exactly remember why or when it had started, but granted his snarky comments didn’t help his cause, he had ended up receiving a blow to his face and his shoes had been either hidden or stolen —he didn’t exactly care to figure out which one.

Sometimes his books disappeared only to resurface on the school’s fountain. And his markers and pens were dried up and unusable after someone had washed them all in the bathroom sinks.

He thought that private catholic schools were made to carry up the worst of the population and a few unfortunate bastards who happened to be stuck with them.

He was one of those.

“What happened to you?” Damen had asked. Damen, Auguste’s best friend of several years, who orbited around him like a satellite. Damen, who was always around and it was worrying when he wasn’t. Who lived next door and had started to treat him like an equal and not a little brother, in spite of the six years of difference between them.

Auguste and Damen were always together. Laurent couldn’t remember a life before they met each other. They had clashed into each other’s atmospheres and then they never left. And Laurent could not yet decide whether he admired or despised that between them.

Even when coming home tired and with dried blood on his face, both of them had looked up from their video game and immediately fussed over him. It made his blood boil in annoyment.

He didn’t really have many friends of his own, and upon becoming a bully target, those few whom he could talk to had dropped him faster than one would a bomb.

Laurent hissed as Auguste pressed a cotton pad with alcohol to his face.

“I told you to stay still,” his brother said, his brows furrowed in worry.

To Damen, Laurent said, “People in school don’t like me very much.”

Auguste started, “Well, you know what mom says—“

He couldn’t help but scoff, “They don’t envy me, Auguste, they hate my guts.”

His brother sighed, “It will get better, Lo.”

Laurent made himself say nothing, instead closed his eyes and let Auguste finish cleaning his face.

“Is your nose broken?” Auguste asked, “Does it hurt anywhere else?” Laurent shook his head. “Do you know where mom keeps your spare glasses?”

Laurent shrugged.

“You could be a bit more helpful.”

“I’m blind, Auguste, even if I helped you now it’d be a lost cause.”

He opened his eyes in time to see Auguste rolling his eyes, yet the corner of his mouth turning up in amusement, “You are not blind, just dramatic. I’m just going to call mom.”

With Auguste gone, he said, a bit shyly, “I was hoping he wouldn’t see me. He worries too much.”

“He loves you, that’s why,” Damen said, in the same quiet tone of voice.

“I know.”And then, “He used to protect me a lot.”

A part of him felt embarrassed to admit it — that he would hide under his brother’s wing for so long. Because it was easier and calmer and he could tend to his daily life, burying his nose in his books without any reason to stress or worry about someone picking on him just for fun, or envy, or just irrational ill behaviour.

“Laurent,” Damen said, and it sounded so serious Laurent braced himself for a moment, “You’re one of the smartest people I know, surely you can find a way to get back at those bullies without any fists involved.”

Blinking slowly, “Are you telling me to get revenge?”

“In a way, yeah.”

Fiercely, but in a good way, he found himself asking the question, “Is it a challenge?”

“It’s a dare.”

“A dare,” Laurent said, “So what do I get in exchange?”

Grinning, Damen tossed him a candy box that he caught in his hands out of sheer luck and a bit of physics, “You can dare me right back.”

And so it began.

“Are you game?” Damen asked.

Slowly, Laurent smiled. A genuine, simple smile.

“Game.”

Nothing was ever the same after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there,
> 
> Yup, it's me, back from the grave.
> 
> I've come to you again with a long fic, of which at least seven chapters have been written and edited already. It's going to be another looooong slow burn so please bear with me.
> 
> I'm, however, very excited as this is a story I've wanted to write basically since Étude ended. It is inspired by the movies "Jeux d'enfants" (from where I picked the games + carousel box idea), and "One day" (although I must say, this one is mainly only structure so don't panic). There will be some future warnings regarding toxic relationships, but I will add them later on as well as more tags and characters.
> 
> I've also taken liberties regarding Laurent's characterization which might seem a bit ooc to some of you, but since the Regent doesn't exist, I took the chance to explore a bit more of Lo as he grows up.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you've enjoyed this first chapter! It is a bit confusing with the time being a bit weird, but I promise from next chapter it all starts to fit into place and it'll become linear.
> 
> As always, my friend Ellen is in charge of editing this story and I thank her from the bottom of my heart. And also, thanks to my demon friend who wishes to remain anonymous and who's helped me carve this story from the ground up, who comes up with many of the funny and clever dialogues here present, and who continues to brainstorm this entire mess with me.
> 
> Feedback and comments fully appreciated! You know where to find me: I'm @princesgambit on twitter (where I spend most of my time) and @dearanemone on tumblr.
> 
> See you next Saturday!


	2. Act I: Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI: Following the flashback at the end of Ch1, this now becomes a linear timeline which means Laurent is 13yo, and we'll slowly build up into the future as we go on. The structure of the chapters change from now on, but it will be mantained throughout the whole story.

There was no real reason to accept a dare. 

If anyone ever asked Damen or Laurent why they agreed to so much nonsense, they wouldn’t be able to give a proper response. Hell, if anyone ever _dared_ ask Laurent specifically why he didn’t stop it while he could, he wouldn’t be able to say anything at all. 

He’d turn around, leave, and pretend the words never reached his ears. 

Truth is, Laurent didn’t know. 

There was no reason to play a game of dares, except that at some point it was fun. And then it was not. 

~~_And then you get buried in cement._ ~~

You would ask him, why did he continue though?

He supposed it was because there was always more to win than to lose. In fact, he never really thought he’d get to lose anything. 

He was wrong. 

***

In spite of how many years had passed since they met, Laurent and Damen’s relationship was everything but normal.

Sometimes it felt like they were ghosts passing through — Auguste being their anchor to the realm. Other times it was just as if they were awkwardly waltzing around the other. Never properly making significant contact, yet always around.

And then there were the rare occasions in which they would suddenly connect. And it was enough. Little by little, Laurent discovered things that he wouldn’t see before; Damen was funny, he was sweet. He had this strong sense of justice and was a good listener. And he was smart. Not in the same way he or Auguste were, quick-witted and strategic, but a problem-solver by nature.

For each problem presented, Damen would come with a solution. It didn’t matter if it was the best or the worst, it was simple and good-natured and it would work through and through with a dose of will power or sheer force.

Damen looked at life from an uncomplicated, uncompromised perspective and it made Laurent infinitely curious. Often thinking what would it be if he were to pry his mind open. What would he find there?

How would it be to simply let go?

Or at least that’s how it was until the game, and everything that came after.

And because he had always longed for that thrill, that infamous loss of control that went against his own existence, is that he loved the game.

Nothing really mattered much if it was a dare. He wouldn’t think or ponder over it — emergency exits or best case scenarios did not apply. Deep inside he knew how dangerous it could be if he actually let go of control. The alarms in his head never once stopped ringing.

However, if it was only a little fun…

A small drop of mischief. Would that be so terrible?

And Damen, older, wiser Damen was there to ground him. So what could go wrong, really?

_Everything._

Hilarious _._

“What are you smiling about?”

Laurent didn’t even bother to look — he knew it was Auguste. He could feel his older brother’s presence from miles away since they were children. Besides, he didn’t want to accidentally pour bleach all over his clothes.

“I’m not smiling,” Laurent said. Although he probably had been.

“You were,” Auguste insisted, putting down the toilet seat and sitting on it, “What’s on your mind, Lo? Or should I say, who?”

Shrugging, “Mischief.”

“Ah, so the usual then.”

Laurent looked up from the small bottles in his hand to find his brother smiling and raising an eyebrow at him.

“What?” He asked, biting the corner of his lip not to start laughing.

“Why are you stealing Mom’s bleach?”

“I’m not stealing Mom’s bleach.”

It was more like a small lending. 

“Laurent,” Auguste said, laughing, “I found you with your hands in the cookie jar.”

“That is a very weird if not incredibly old expression, my dearest brother.”

“Promise me you are not about to poison anyone.”

To that, Laurent grinned, “Not exactly.”

“Oh for God’s sake.”

“Auguste,” Laurent started, “Don’t be boring. This is all for a game.”

“I’ve played Cluedo enough times to know how this one ends.”

“Okay, if you have to absolutely be a pain in my ass, then—“

Auguste sighed, raising his hands in exasperation, “Fine! But tell me, what kind of game?”

“It’s a game of dares. Damen dared me to do something, and now,” shaking the bottles in his hands, “I’m delivering my part of the bargain”

If he was surprised, he didn’t show it, “Damen dared you to do what exactly?”

“The details were left to my imagination. But I’m not killing anyone.” Yet.

“Right. And so, after you do…whatever you are bound to do, what’s next in the game?”

Laurent set the bottles on the sink and closed them, “I dare him back. And he’ll have to do whatever I say.” He shook the little one, the one he needed, and felt a tiny bit of victory already, even if that had only been the easy part.

Mischief, he had said? More like playing with fire.

“Huh, I see.”

Looking up, Laurent saw Auguste grinning, one leg crossed over the other, wiggling eyebrows at him, “So it was a _who_ , after all.”

Laurent felt, quite annoyingly, the blood rushing to his face. He couldn’t hide it, less in front of Auguste, so he did the one thing anyone would do, and attacked his brother with a dirty towel straight to his face.

Auguste made a disgusted sound and emerged with his hair tousled from the towel, “This stinks,” and, “What do you need bleach for, anyway?”

He lied, “I'm dyeing my hair.”

“You’re already blond.”

“I’m dyeing my hair white.”

After a beat, Auguste said, “You do know you need hair bleach and not actual bleach, right? Wait, no, of course you don’t.”

Laurent blinked slowly, the thought hitting him, “Oh.”

“Oh, indeed.”

Laurent clicked his tongue, “Know-it-all.”

“Laurent.”

“Okay, well, I didn’t think it through that well.”

“Come on, I’ll take you to the store and we can buy some potentially not toxic enough to kill you hair bleach.”

Thinking it through, if Auguste hadn’t intervened, he could have potentially killed a bunch of people.

Serves them right.

Shaking his head, Auguste got up and ruffled his hair, “What would you do without me?”

“I would die,” he answered honestly.

“No, you wouldn’t,” his brother smiled, “You would be just fine. But you need to be careful. Sometimes, at your age, nothing really seems that serious. You don’t see the consequences, and I get it. I was thirteen too, once. But you’re clever enough not to be reckless.”

Playfully, “What’s so bad about being reckless, old man?”

“That there’s always more losing than winning.”

“I’ll be more careful,” Laurent promised. And he meant it, at least at the time.

***

As it turned out, the hardest part of his revenge was not to laugh. 

Not when the principal gave the announcement that _someone_ had added hair dye to the boy’s showers inside the gym, nor when the teachers threatened with more tests and projects if the culprit didn’t show up. 

Definitely _not_ when he saw his bully’s black raven hair turned a shade between chika yellow and dirty haven't-washed-these-jeans-since-the-90s white. 

He had been very careful not to be seen — spending the entire afternoon waiting for all the sport teams to go home after practice and general P.E. Watching students and teachers come and go until there was not a single soul around so he could sneak inside the bathrooms and ever so methodical, prepare this poison. 

Well, hair dye. 

It felt almost natural to indulge in his small victory as he walked down the halls, grin on his face, and it only made it even better when he crossed paths with Brian, the third year student who loved to terrorize him since he was in elementary school. Brian was tall and stocky and sincerely ugly, with his two eyebrows not just meeting each other but embracing in the middle of his forehead. His eyes were dark and his eyelashes long and if Laurent wasn’t careful he’d start seeing him as one of the donkey-boys from pinocchio and he’d piss himself laughing, probably earning a beating from the bully in question.

Of course, in spite of all the other people whispering and laughing in the halls, he didn’t go unnoticed. 

By the time Laurent realized, Brian was already walking towards him, “What are you laughing at, bitch? Want another black eye?”

He couldn’t help it really, his grin only grew making the alarms in his head start ringing. “You look great,” he said, “who’s your stylist?”

~~_MAYDAYMAYDAYMAYDAYMAYDAY_ ~~

The bully grabbed him by the collar and pushed him against the wall, all air leaving him in a second. But he couldn’t help to stop grinning. He thought, if it had been a battle for his life, it would have ended in tragedy. 

“You still have a mouth on you,” Brian said, “I’ll beat you so hard your tongue will roll back into your throat.”

The smile vanished, at last. Inside of him, everything went very still. And when he spoke, he felt his voice cut clean like a slash, “I don’t think you will.”

Brian laughed then, a sarcastic and guttural sound, “Wanna bet? Your big brother is not here to save you anymore.”

“I don’t think you will,” Laurent said again, “because next time it won’t be hair dye.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

His grin came back then, but it wasn’t funny anymore — just bitter. He hated bitter. “Is that a challenge?”

In the eyes of the bully, something changed. Fear or respect or a spark of doubt, whatever it had been was enough for him to loosen his grip on Laurent’s collar. Brian glared at him, but it didn’t seem as genuine as before. He licked his lips and murmured something unintelligible before walking away.

Laurent separated himself from the wall, straightening his back. It ached in response but he ignored it, instead focusing on how empty the halls were. At some point all the spectators had disappeared, probably into their last class of the day. 

No one wanted to be the in-between of a bully and their victim. Survival of the fittest, as one would say. 

And yet, there was one person who did not vanish. Instead, he stood there, arms crossed and leaning against the opposite wall, watching him. 

“So it was you,” Aimeric said, then a bit lower, “I knew it.”

Aimeric was in his class since elementary school, but they’d never really interacted. He always sat next to a window and talked only when prompted. Still, he managed to be annoying and nosy. Pretty boy with curly hair and hazel eyes and a tendency to be a pain in the ass. 

Laurent raised his eyebrows, “And so?” 

“Clever,” Aimeric shrugged, “But not creative. You watch too many american movies.”

“Excuse me? What the—”

Aimeric cut him off and started to walk away, “You idiot, we have lab. The teacher sent me to find you.” 

Laurent followed, “You know too much,” he said, “I have to dispose of you now.”

Aimeric rolled his eyes, “Oh great, he’s also dramatic.”

“It’s my word against yours, you know that.”

“Listen, believe it or not, I have better things to do than rat you out.” Then, Aimeric added, “Plus, he deserved it. And it was funny.”

Laurent said nothing. Side by side, they walked along the hall and went upstairs to the biology lab. Laurent continued to say nothing, even as the teacher scolded him for being late and urged him to slide on his lab coat and catch up on what he’d missed. Something about opening up a cow’s heart. 

If Aimeric didn’t want to rat him out, then what did he want? 

For some reason, the whole scene with Aimeric didn’t bother him as much as it should have, which instead, bothered him more. 

Maybe he was overthinking it. 

They sat together, as they were the last ones to join the class and the only ones who didn’t have a partner to work with. “How did you find me?” Laurent asked. .

“It was easy,” Aimeric said, not even looking up from his notes, “I looked for the dumb blond with a death wish.”

“Seriously.”

“People love to talk, you know.”

“And you happen to be an expert in that, aren’t you?”

The voice of the teacher startled him. He seemed as done with him as he was with his profession in general. “De Vere, Fortaine,” he said, “Either you’re here with the rest of the class or you’re out and on your way to the disciplinary office.” 

“Sorry,” Aimeric mumbled, but glared at Laurent the second the teacher turned his back to them again. 

_What’s with him?_

A minute or so later, Aimeric whispered, “The bullies won’t leave you alone after what you did. I honestly thought he was going to hit you.”

Ironically, “Would you have stopped him?”

Aimeric scoffed, “Of course not.”

“What are you suggesting then?”

Turning to look at him, “You’re going to need an ally. Someone to be your eyes and ears around the school.” 

“That’s a very lame offer.” 

Still, he considered it for a moment. Really, what was the worst thing that could happen? He had no friends and no one ever talked to him unless strictly necessary. Aimeric was kind of annoying, yes, but still, he seemed to know his way around. 

So what did he want? 

Why bother now? 

“I can be invisible.”

“How can I know you’re with me and not against me? I mean, how can I trust you? I don’t even know you.” 

Rolling his eyes, “Okay, first of all, you need to chill. This is not a war,” then, leaning his chin on his right hand, drawing circles on his notebook with his left one, Aimeric spoke again, “I’m also done being bullied. And I want to get revenge too.” 

Ah. 

Now it made sense. 

“So you’re basically a coward and you want to use me for protection.” 

“You’re a bit slow but still smart for a blond.”

“Fuck you.”

“De Vere,” the teacher called again, “Second warning, you hear me? One more and you’re out of my class.”

After a beat of silence, Aimeric whispered, “Come on Laurent, a gay kid in a catholic school standing up for himself? You ought to have a death wish.” 

“It’s better than doing nothing, though. Also, how did you—”

“Perceptive, remember?”

“You cannot possibly know.”

“We’re more alike than you think.”

“Spare me.”

“Listen, you don’t have to accept or trust me or whatever. But I could help you. And if that doesn’t convince you,” Aimeric said, going through his bag, “I’ve got these.”

Immediately after, he tossed a plastic bag full of cookies to Laurent. 

“You’re bribing me.”

“Only if it’s working.”

Laurent looked around to find the teacher busy writing on the board. He took one chocolate chip cookie to his mouth, biting carefully. 

It had the perfect crunch and then it melted in his mouth. It was not too sweet and he could feel a pinch of salt. The chocolate drops were dark and he could taste hazelnut too. 

Aimeric was watching him attentively, waiting for a reaction.

“Did you make these?”

Nodding, “And I can make more.”

Laurent closed his eyes, swallowing and sighing partly relieved and partly discouraged. If he was completely honest, he still couldn’t understand what was going on, but perhaps Aimeric could be useful in more than one way. 

And he could get free sweets. 

“I’m already regretting this,” he admitted, grabbing another cookie and wondering if this was a punishment for being gay in a catholic school and not believing in God. 

_Fuck God. And the bullies._

_And this damn school._ _  
_

Aimeric sighed, then reached for a cookie as well, “Me fucking too.” 

***

After ~~selling his soul to Satan~~ being bribed by Aimeric and almost getting a punishment for eating and talking in class, Laurent went straight home and sat down on the swing seat they kept on the porch, waiting for Damen to come back from his university lectures. 

He changed his uniform for a jumper and sweatpants and lay back to read, the carousel box tucked in the blanket next to him. It was probably weird to feel some sort of comfort from it, but he had been carrying it around ever since he had received it, and now the familiar weight of it was almost a presence. 

_Pathetic._

Maybe he just needed some friends. 

_Or a therapist._

Sighing, he rested his head back on the cushion and took his glasses off, rubbing the inside corners of his eyes with his thumbs. 

His mom wasn’t home and probably wouldn’t be for another few hours. Auguste wasn’t home yet either, which was unusual but not rare, and he was determined not to dwell on how lonely his afternoons and evenings were. He should be used to it by now, and mostly it didn’t bother him, but sometimes it just…

_No._

_We’re not doing this now._

After all, he had no right to speak of loneliness. Not when he had always been deeply aware of the amount of pain and grief that befell both his mother and his brother following their father’s death. 

Laurent had been too small to understand what a tragedy was or what death meant. He existed and made echo of his existence by laughing and crying and playing no matter the situation, as all kids are bound to do. And yet, it was confusing for a child, whose mere existence hasn’t even reached itself to coherent thoughts and lasting memories, to see someone everyday and then have them disappear forever, no real explanation added. 

And now, at thirteen, he wasn’t sure if, from all the people affected by his father’s passing, he had been the luckiest one; for his time with his father had been so limited, that the moments and glimpses he did retain of him didn’t bring him any pain. 

Or anything at all. 

There were certain times where a random fragment of buried long-forgotten childhood days would strike him, and it would leave him breathless. He’d see the corners of his dad’s mouth curving into a smile, or hear a faint sound similar to his laughter and he’d be back to a hospital room, sitting on his father’s lap and clapping absurdly. 

He’d be back to reaching for a hand that was bigger than his but identical in nature, and seeing the world from someone’s shoulders who carried him with pleasure to some unknown destination. 

By the time Laurent could recognize what those imageries were, they would be gone, back to some intangible corner of his mind. 

With the years, he had stopped trying to trigger memories from someone he wouldn’t meet again. Auguste sometimes told him stories, anecdotes of better times where they had been three, and then four, and then three again. 

Happy times, long days of adventures. Auguste told him that their father was a good man, an honest man, true to his word and with a vast imagination. That he told them stories and that Laurent had loved them as a child. His mother told him that both him and his brother got their colouring from her and not their father, but that Auguste was the spitting image of him except for his blond hair, while Laurent held his temper and shared personality traits that made her think of him. 

Was it possible to love someone without having met them at all? 

Because he found that he couldn’t. He could see this man through their eyes and learn about him as if one would learn from a history book. Sometimes it felt so abstract and detached from the person he was, he couldn’t deal with it. 

He missed his dad. But he didn’t know if he could love him. He didn’t know if there had been a time where he loved him and his death had scarred him. Maybe it did and he couldn’t remember. Maybe he didn’t want to remember. 

And it terrified him that his father wouldn’t miss him and wouldn’t love him, because in spite of being his child, he was barely there to meet him. 

A passing breeze, a tempest. The flash of a camera; there for a second and then gone. 

And if his father did love him, did that make him a monster for questioning his own capability of love? 

Laurent’s head started to throb, and so he pinned a little post-it note to the dashboard of his mind as a reminder to get a new hobbie. Something to keep him entertained when he wasn’t plotting a war. 

_Lonely Laurent de Vere, cursed to being all alone with his thoughts._

And feeling and saying and doing all the wrong things. 

His cell phone buzzed next to him, bringing him back to reality and away from the mess he was inside. 

Aimeric, who somehow had gotten his email address, had sent him several pictures of their bullies’ new hairstyles. 

_A: Next time we steal their clothes while they shower._

Laurent raised his eyebrows, thumbs moving along with his trail of thoughts. 

_L: “We”? You’re getting ahead of yourself, minion._

_A: Think about it. What’s worse than having to walk around school in underwear? It’s like a nightmare._

_Huh._

Laurent imagined a tree setting on fire; a spark igniting. 

_L: I guess you’re not useless, after all._

And then he had an idea. 

He bit his lower lip to refrain himself from smiling, though it was useless. So, instead, he read. It was a book Auguste had recommended, as apparently the author was famous for the plot-twist in the end. So far, it seemed simple yet interesting enough to keep him focus. A crime novel about a missing girl and a writer who looks for her, ten years after her disappearance. 

Laurent was getting into the third chapter, when a shadow leaned over him, blocking the last rays of sunlight. 

“Hello you,” Damen said, smiling, “What are you reading?”

Looking up, his heart stopped at once. He licked his lips before replying, “Murder,” and then, “Can you move? You’re blocking the sun.” 

Damen chuckled, sitting next to him instead, “Some light reading before dinner time, I take it.”

Closing the book, “Indeed,” and then, fakingly annoyed, “You’re late.”

“Am I now?” Damen sighed, stretching his arms and then putting them behind his head, “I’m sorry, class is killing me. We start finals this week.”

“I still have a week of freedom before ours start as well.”

“Enjoy it while you can.”

Between them, Laurent could feel the carousel box pulsating along with his own heart rhythm. A part of him felt the urge to get rid of it, suddenly, as if it was cursed. And then the other part wanted to hold it forever. 

Instead, he tossed it towards Damen, “For you.”

Damen stared at it, then playfully, “Really? Did you get your revenge, already?” 

“Oh, I’m glad you asked,” Laurent smiled then, proudly, and held his phone for Damen to see the pictures. 

“Oh my sweet Jesus.”

“Yup.”

Amazed, “You bleached their hair?! How on earth did you do that?”

“I put creamed peroxide in the shampoo and hair dye in the conditioner of the boy’s bathroom.” 

Without a drop of malice, only delight, Damen looked at him with a grin, “You’re crazy.”

“Back at you.”

“Alright, then, what’s my dare?” 

“Well,” he started, “you seem awfully stressed about your finals…”

“Yeah, I really need to get better marks this semester,” Damen frowned a little. ~~It was cute.~~ ”I didn’t do so good in the last one.”

“That’s no surprise, really.”

“Heeeey,” Damen nudged him, “Rude. University is hard, you’ll see for yourself when your time comes.”

“University may be hard, but at least you don’t have to wear uniforms.”

“Right,” he blinked, “I’m... not following.”

“You can wear whatever you want, right?”

“In theory, yes.” And then, “I’m not liking where this is going.”

Laurent smiled. A genuine, mischievous smile. He took the box and offered it with a hand, as in a small mocking courtesy, “Won’t you feel way better if you take your finals without any pants on?” 

Damen’s smile faded, “ _Laurent_.”

Innocently, “Damen.” 

“I can’t. It’s too much.” 

“I probably risked expulsion and one hell of a beating for you. Plus, you never said there were any rules or boundaries.” 

“I can’t show up to class without any pants on, I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t let me take the final. _And_ they would laugh at me.” 

Scoffingly “Oh poor you,” Laurent shrugged, “Then wear them under your boxers.” 

Damen looked up and sighed, as in a quiet prayer. “Goddammit.” 

“So? Are you game?” and his heart faltered at the thought, for he really wished to continue their game and if Damen was ~~a coward~~ over with it he’d be pissed and also slightly disappointed, “Or do you yield?” 

“Yield?” Damen snorted, “What are we? Knights in charming armor dueling for a lady’s honour?”

“I would beat you fair and square if that were the case.” 

Not like he'd actually duel for anyone's honour ~~especially not a lady's~~ except perhaps his own, but pointing it out was irrelevant.

Damen took the box from his hand in what seemed actual resignation, “You’re evil, you know that?”

Grinning, “Thank you.” 

Shaking his head, “I’m going home. Do you want to have dinner with us? I’m sure mom wouldn’t mind.”

“It’s okay, I’ll wait for Auguste.” 

Damen got up and ruffled his hair, “He’ll probably be late, something to do with a group project.” He started to step back, and Laurent watched him, “Don’t stay out here for too long or you’ll catch a cold.”

Laurent rolled his eyes, “Yeah, got it.” And then, he said loud enough for Damen to hear as he kept walking away, “Don’t even think about cheating! I’ll have Auguste take pictures of your dare!”

Damen smiled and saluted him, then jumped the fence from their garden to his own, and waved goodbye before opening the door to the house next door and disappearing through. 

_Alone again._

Leaning his head back, Laurent closed his eyes once more. The minutes passed, and his eyelids grew heavy and his breathing started to change. He wanted to name what he was feeling, what he felt every time Damen was around, but naming thoughts or fears was a dangerous thing. 

He didn’t know if it could ever be, and he was yet to discover whether he was okay with that or not. Because in spite of it all, Damen was a stranger that no matter how much he wished to figure out, he couldn’t put together. Not even with all the pieces on the table. 

Laurent knew him, or so he thought, until he looked at him and then he knew nothing again. 

_How strange._

Maybe it was just sleep talking…

Unconsciously, he reached over for the carousel box, but he found the space next to him empty. So instead, he drew his hand back to his chest and chanted, to himself and no one else. 

_“Be still my beating heart, you must learn to stand your ground.”_

***

Next thing he knew, he was being picked up and then floating, floating, floating…

Or perhaps not. 

Perhaps it wasn’t clouds but just two very strong arms holding him carefully, carrying him away, like a little kid. Suddenly he was back to being just a kid, dreaming of the nothing and enjoying it there. 

The warmer air and brighter lights made him grow awake for a moment. Faintly, he made up the sound of slow steps hitting the wooden floors — it pulled back his mind from wherever he had been, the image dissolving into reality. 

He gasped a little, air caught in his throat, “Auguste?”

His brother’s voice was soft and quiet. Reassuring, as it may. It made him relax, “Hello little brother, you fell asleep on the porch.” 

Laurent said, just as softly, “I was waiting for you.”

Auguste seemed to chuckle at that, “You’re so cute, Lo.”

He frowned, in spite of having his eyes closed, “You’re stupid.”. 

“Well, I’m not the one who fell asleep out in the cold, am I? It’d be a shame if you got sick and missed the book fair next week.”

“I’m not going to get sick.”

“Okay,” definitely not convinced, “I believe you.”

But he didn’t have the energy to tell Auguste off, so he let it go. At least for the time being. 

Suddenly his back made contact with something soft yet incredibly cold and he groaned, hanging onto Auguste and his warmth. 

He could tell the hint of laughter in his voice as he said, “Come on Lo, you’ll be more comfortable sleeping in your own bed.”

Whining, “It’s cold.”

Laurent opened his eyes a little, but it was almost painful to do so. His mind was completely shut for the day and there was no way he could awake back his senses.

He saw Auguste smiling at him as he wrapped him in his favourite thick blankets, “Did you eat?” he asked, leaning him back on the bed. 

Laurent made an intendible sound that he supposed was a _no_. 

“Not even a glass of milk?” 

“I had cookies,” he said. Or at least tried to articulate something similar. “Aimeric made me cookies.”

“Aimeric?” Auguste gently brushed the hair off his face, “Is that a new friend?” 

Closing his eyes again, “A minion.” 

“Well,” his brother’s voice said, and he felt his glasses being lifted off his face, “Then I’ll make you an extra pancake for tomorrow’s breakfast.”

“Okay.” he said, nodding a little, reaching out for a pillow next to him. 

_Okay._

Again, he was floating. In his dreams he always found his favourite things: like flying books and mountains of dessert he could eat. There were no worries about growing up or silly dares or awful boys beating him up. 

He wondered, innocently, if perhaps his dad ever dreamt of chocolate mountains too. 

Auguste kissed his forehead then. He whispered, “Goodnight, Lo.” 

And the lights were out, and the world went quiet, and the carousel box followed him to his dreams, leaving taints he couldn’t see yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and happy Saturday guys, 
> 
> I'm back, as promised, with a new chapter. 
> 
> I'm very happy to see so many of you from Étude, it fills me up with joy and I can't wait for you all to see what this whole thing is about. 
> 
> Nothing more to say. As always, thanks to Ellen for editing this chapter and demon friend who helped me build the dialogues and come up with fun dares for the silly boys here. 
> 
> “Be still my beating heart, you must learn to stand your ground.” lyrics taken from [Be Still My Beating Heart](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ng4P6FWVdcE) by Sting. Which reminds me, I've made public my Spotify playlist for this fic. Because as you all know, I breathe music. So let me know and I'll add a link to it somewhere. 
> 
> Feedback and comments fully appreciated! You know where to find me: I'm @princesgambit on twitter (where I spend most of my time) and @dearanemone on tumblr.
> 
> See you next weekend!


	3. Act I: Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI: Last time jump in Arc I: Laurent is now 17yo.
> 
> “If that professor is bothering you so much, then find a way to get back at him.”

The dares never made any sense. 

Initially, he supposed, the dares started off as a way of encouraging each other; stepping out of their comfort zone. 

Outdo one another in stupid challenges that harmed nobody but their egoes. Seasons of laughter and eating dog’s food and catching a cockroach and singing instead of talking for a whole day. 

Wearing Elton John style glasses and slapping the P.E. teacher then running for dear life. Eating sushi until they puked and rolling inside of an old worn truck tire down a hill; surviving to tell everyone after. 

Until it changed. Until one day, somehow, it became something awful. And it was all about annoying each other to see who’d surrender first and wanting to win just because losing meant losing the other. 

Winning because however it ended, it was better than how it’d go if they lost. 

Because there were things they’d never say, things that couldn’t be put into words so they never even tried. 

So they played.

And it was all about—

_Getting to know you._

_And falling in love with you._

_And growing to hate you._

_And trying you kill you._

_And wanting, desperately to hurt you._

_As much as you’ve hurt me._

No, really, they just wanted to be silly. They just wanted to spend time together and somehow—

~~Somehow they ended up on a rooftop.~~

He wondered if there was ever a winner. 

***

When he was younger, Laurent used to believe he would grow to catch up with Damen at some point. 

For years, inside of his naive mind he thought Damen would never grow; that time and fate would stop as if saying, _now, hurry up, before anyone else notices. We’ll give you this chance._

_One day._

_One extra second. One extra year. A pact with the devil._

It took him a while and wasted birthday wishes ~~and satanic rituals~~ to understand that it wouldn’t happen. That one day would never come. He’d grow up and Damen would always remain six insufferable steps ahead. 

Seventeen now against soon-to-be twenty-three. 

Twenty against twenty-six. 

Twenty-four against thirty. 

Time and fate against him.

Laurent was finishing high school while Damen was finishing university. How lucky. 

He often wondered how it’d be if he exchanged places with Auguste, instead. If maybe that’d make things easier or on the contrary, if it’d erase everything between them leaving them as strangers. 

Perhaps in another universe, Damen and him would be the exact same age. And they’d walk on the opposite side of the road but neither of them would turn their heads. Maybe they’d be missing each other by seconds. Smiling in different directions to the arms of other people because their gazes never once locked. 

So was it better to have found him, then? Under these conditions. Was it better to be sitting right next to him but not being able to have him the way he wanted to? 

He couldn’t tell. To exchange one suffering for another or forget it’d even happened at all. He didn’t want to know and it didn’t do good to dwell over things that couldn’t be changed. 

Though, sometimes he allowed himself to dream of it. 

_Perhaps, in another life._

In spite of it all, Damen and him became best friends. And as best friends, they continued to play their game. 

Maybe one day, Laurent thought, Damen would turn his head to see him staring, and that’d be enough. No words, for words often failed to convey what they felt. It’d only take a look and his heart would know. 

_One day. Today._

_Not yet._

For now, all Laurent could do was sit on the passenger seat while Damen drove and play his cards wisely; make a joke he knows Damen will like just to see him laugh. Turn on the radio and find a guilty pleasure they both could sing along. 

Watch him, instead, with his feet on the dash just to annoy him, chewing gum loudly and making bubbles and laughing when Damen rolled his eyes. 

Watch him, memorize the shape of Damen’s full lips and the way they moved as he hummed. _They never chapped, how could that be?_ How relaxed his posture was, how confident he seemed with his hands on the wheel. The slight curl of hair at his nape that seemed to be alive and different from all the other dark locks on his head. 

And how beautiful those locks were. 

His clean shaved face. The tip of his nose. The three moles on his right cheek that looked like a constellation. His pierced earlobe, product of one of the dares, with a silver plated hoop hanging from it. 

The way he playfully flicked Laurent’s head when he was looking out the window. 

It was too much, but he found himself picking the memories one by one, holding them dearly and saving them for when he got _hopeless_ and _helpless_ and _desperate_. 

What else could he do? 

_Desperate Laurent de Vere, cursed to stay on the passenger seat of his own life._

Laurent sighed and closed his eyes. His mind and his heart and his incredibly poor judgement pulsing to the beat of an embarrassing truth.

_I can’t take my eyes off you._

_I can’t take my eyes off you._

_I can’t._

“You okay?” Damen asked. 

_No._

_I think I’m a bit ill._

_Funny, when I look at you I can barely breathe._

_You have no idea._

“Are you?” Laurent asked, his eyelids fluttering open, “It’s your dare after all.”

“It’s too late to back off now, isn’t it?”

Laurent smiled slowly, he turned to Damen as he said, “You can always yield.”

Damen grinned, “I’m not losing.”

Laurent chewed his gum, then made a bubble. It popped with a satisfying sound, “We shall see.”

Outside, the world was cold and gray and miserably boring. He thought about how badly he wished he could stay in that passenger seat forever. 

Just there, sitting next to Damen, talking about the weather. 

Laurent was bad at being happy. He was bad at appreciating great moments, always living in the distasteful _after_ before it even came. Too worried about how good things ended too early and how unsatisfied he felt by it all to actually enjoy them.

He tended to sulk until he didn’t stand himself anymore. It was product of his tendency to overthink things. But it seemed that the more he learned and saw, the more he thought over things that weren’t even worth it. 

“You’re very quiet today.”

Damen, instead, was simple. And bold. And it made all of his senses go still while his feelings went havoc. 

He said, with a shrug, “Rainy days and mondays always get me down.”

_Funny, but it seems I always wind up here with you_

“It’s Saturday.”

“I know, but that’s how the song goes, really.” 

After a beat, Damen said, casually, “You really like classics, don’t you?”

“Say again?”

“ _Brothers Karamazov_ . _The Carpenters_. It’s like you live in the past.”

He sighed dramatically, “I’m an old soul as the poets say.” 

“Or a snob.”

Laurent glared at him, even though Damen probably didn’t see him. They both smiled, however, as a reflex. 

“I quite like it,” said Damen. 

_I quite like it._

_I quite like it._

_I quite like it._

It echoed in his ears, drops of water before white noise. Laurent turned up the volume of the radio to try to drown those words attempting to end his life right then and there. 

The song that played was one he knew well. Early nineties, about love and the despair of having it found you. One that brought him back to the backseat of a car, entering the summer breeze and the smell of sea salt. Ironically, he thought it fit quite well with how he felt — drowning in an abyss. 

“I really like this song,” he said, just because. 

As if saying, _listen to it, because I can’t tell you myself._

_Take this piece of me that I’m offering you, and hold it there for a minute. Keep it close to you._

_Don’t ever let me go._

“It’s a bit sad,” Damen mentioned. 

_Yeah._

“She’s in love,” Laurent said, simply. 

***

Since it was a saturday afternoon, the coffee shop was full and they had to wait in line for a while. 

It was the nearest coffee shop to Damen’s university, and after a little bit of ~~stalking~~ research, they had figured out it happened to be the same one that the obnoxious Professor visited every single day for breakfast. 

Now they just needed to deliver a message. 

To be honest, Damen could have done it by himself, but Laurent had agreed to running the errand in exchange of free coffee.

They stood there for a while in comfortable silence, Damen checking his phone and typing every now and then. Laurent on the other hand, watched the people around them. There was a clear division of teenage girls drinking colourful frappuccinos and couples drinking tea and espresso and rubbing their noses together. 

And just in between, the two of them. 

_We could pass for a couple._

His eyes went immediately to Damen’s left hand, a finger lingering on the inside of his pocket as he was lost in thought. 

Very carefully, Laurent shook all thoughts from his mind. It was wise not to let them run wild. Especially when they were so awfully close to each other.

The ceiling was one of those with mirrors on it, and Laurent found himself staring at his reflection. Damen looked up as well, finding his gaze. 

“How do you plan on convincing the barista?” Laurent asked, curiously. 

Winking, “I have my methods.”

Somehow, he didn’t like that. He said nothing. 

After a while, they made it so there were only two people in front of them. 

“Oh I know this one,” Damen said suddenly. 

Blinking, “What?”

Damen pointed up and smiled, “The song.”

Laurent listened. It was a bit hard at first with all the chattering and clinking going around them. But still he could pick up the melody — and once he did, it invaded him like flooding water. 

_Passion or coincidence_

_Once prompted you to say_

_"Pride will tear us both apart"_

He was almost certain, but then doubted a little, “Duran Duran?” He guessed. 

Nodding, Damen sang along with the chorus softly. In spite of the strange nervousness and disgust bubbling inside of him, Laurent smiled. 

“Are we playing song association now?” He asked.

Damen smiled, “Why not? We’re pretty decent at it.”

“That we are.”

As the person in front of them moved away, Damen asked him, “The usual?”

Laurent nodded, feeling just a bit embarrassed that Damen was ordering an iced caramel latte on his behalf, but deciding it didn’t really matter since Damen knew about his sweet choices by now. 

Or so he wanted to make himself believe. 

Damen turned to the girl at the counter then, and saw the way his wicked grin and tender brown eyes landed on her as badly as they also landed on him.

His stomach flipped.

“Hey,” Damen said, “I was hoping you’d be the one to take my order.”

He saw how she smiled and giggled in return, blushing as Damen leaned over the counter, whispering things he couldn’t ~~and didn’t want to~~ hear. 

He saw the way Damen made her laugh, all dimples and smiles and how painfully aware he was of the fact that neither of the two glanced at him for a second, at any point. 

She was a pretty girl. Petite, with big round eyes and long brown hair. Small lips that shaped like a heart whenever she glanced back at the screen to take orders. Freckles on sun-kissed skin.

She wasn’t Damen’s type of girl at all.

But then again, it was very bold of him to say that, when clearly he didn’t know about girls. Much less the ones that would catch Damen’s attention.

Whether the flirting was part of the game or not, he didn't know. But he could tell Damen was enjoying it. And he didn’t know what to do.

He was overwhelmed by pure unfiltered disgust. 

And shame. 

Shame that he was drowning on that very spot next to Damen, unable to move or make a sound. Unable to do anything but watch ~~and break his own heart~~. He wanted to double over and hold himself. It hurt all over and it also made him nauseous and completely furious. 

The girl turned to him then, and she said something that he heard but couldn’t understand. Before he could say anything, though, Damen glanced over him and then winked at her, dismissing him completely. 

“Oh that’s my friend’s baby brother.”

_Baby brother._

_Baby brother._

_Baby brother._

_Baby brother._

_Baby brother. Baby brother. Baby brother. Baby brother. Baby brother. Baby brother. Baby brother. Baby brother. Baby brother. Baby brother. Baby brother. Baby brother. Baby brother. Baby brother. Baby brother. Baby brother. Baby brother. Baby brother. Baby brother. Baby brother. Baby brother. Baby brother. Baby brother. Baby brother. Baby brother. Baby brother. Baby brother. Baby brother. Baby brother. Baby brother. Baby brother. Baby brother. Baby brother. Baby brother. Baby brother. Baby brother. Baby brother. Baby brother. Baby brother. Baby brother. Baby brother. Baby brother. Baby brother. Baby brother. Baby brother. Baby brother. Baby brother. Baby brother. Baby brother. Baby brother. Baby brother. Baby brother._

_Breathe._

_Laurent, breathe._

He inhaled and exhaled, digged his nails into the palm of his hands, and finally recognized the strange feeling for what it was. 

Jealousy. 

At last, Damen handed the girl the vial containing the laxative for his Professor and kissed her hand. She blushed furiously. 

Thereupon, Laurent felt the immense physical desire to destroy something. 

But he didn’t. He couldn’t. So he grabbed his coffee and told himself to get it together. _Don’t let them see they can get to you._

Don’t let anything show. Not yet. 

***

One thing to learn about Laurent earlier than ever, was the fact that he did not do well with his impulses. When he couldn’t deal with what he was feeling, he had to destroy the source. 

Burn it, so it may. 

Because hurt and overwhelmed were a seriously bad combination and if given the opportunity, they would turn deadly. 

That day, Laurent made the first of many mistakes. He started the thread that’d follow them to the rest of their lives. 

Damen was chatty on the way back to the car, which only enervated him more. He held tightly to his drink, watching the coffee going up and threatening to spill all over his hands. For a second, he imagined himself crushing the plastic cup with his fingers, painfully ripping it apart, the contents all over his clothes. 

But he didn’t do that. Instead, he took a sip. It tasted bitter; all the flavours: the sweetness, the thickness of the caramel, the neutral balance of the milk had turned to the opposite in this tongue. He could only taste bitter, bitter, spoilt and rotten. 

Nonetheless, he made himself swallow it. 

He glanced at Damen, waiting for him to unlock the car so he could get in. In his head, he saw himself throwing the drink at his perfect face, that fucking victorious grin. Instead, he took a sip. The coffee bubbled in his stomach, but he didn’t feel sick. _Wrong_ and _unbalanced_ were better words. 

Laurent thought, for the first time in his life, _I want to hurt him._

“Well,” Damen said, once they were inside and the doors were shut, “That was a success. I even got myself a date.”

Laurent smiled a fake and distasteful smile, “Good for you.”

And Damen either disregarded his comment or didn’t notice the sarcasm behind it. Laurent couldn’t tell which one. 

“Where to now?” Damen asked, and then, “Buckle up. Do you still want me to drive you to the music store?” 

“Sure.”

“Buckle up.”

Laurent didn’t snap then. He did as he was told, counted to ten in his head to not lose control. 

As Damen started to drive out of the coffee shop parking lot, Laurent thought, _I want to hurt him._ As they made their way back to the highway, Laurent thought, _I want to hurt_ ~~_him, myself, us, everything, everyone_ ~~ _~~.~~ You. _

_Because why would you say that?_

_Why won’t you spare me a look, too?_

_Why, when I’m always trailing behind you, playing this stupid game?_

Jealousy made him a terrible person. Why were these thoughts blocking out his common sense? Why, when he was way better than this. When he had such cultivated wit and respect and values and manners. 

Why couldn’t he just ignore it?

“Next time get me a better drink at least,” he muttered. 

He heard Damen scoff, “Don’t be an ass.”

_Oh. I’m an ass?_

_Okay then._

The highway was empty if not for a few random SUVs and motorcycles. Probably because it was raining harder by the minute. Carefully but surely, Laurent slid his left leg to the driver’s seat. He nudged Damen’s foot, pressing hard on the gas pedal. 

Almost immediately, Damen kicked his foot away. Mockingly, if not plain sarcastic, he said, “What? Are you pissed off now?”

As if to prove his point, Laurent brought his eyes up at Damen, then pressed his foot back again on the pedal. Harder, this time. 

Their car got dangerously closer to the one in front of them. Someone from the next lane honked in warning, blinking the intermittent lights. Damen turned to him and their eyes locked for what seemed a lifetime. There was fear and confusion and questions that Laurent wouldn’t answer. Instead, “Eyes on the road.”

“Laurent,” Damen’s voice was equally tense as it was angry, “What the hell are you doing?”

Laurent looked away. He couldn’t cope with the look on Damen’s face and didn’t want to. He said, in a low and awful voice, “Don’t kill us.”

Again, almost yelling, “Laurent, stop, stop you’re going to make us crash.”

Laurent closed his eyes then. Around him, the world lost its sound. He was aware of his composed breathing starting to unleash; how badly he wanted to inhale deeply and yet he couldn’t anymore. He could feel his pulse on every organ, every cell of his body. 

If they died, it’d be on him.

He didn’t give in, not even when the honking increased. He was determined not to lose it, although he wasn’t sure what exactly considering his sanity had seemed to jump out the window a while ago. 

Distantly, he heard Damen curse and then silence swallowed him. Laurent pressed the pedal harder, as hard as he had wanted to punch Damen inside the coffee shop. As strongly as he wanted to slap back logic into himself. 

Opening his eyes, he saw that Damen was getting them away, swiveling between the lanes like it wasn’t risky enough already with the meter marking two hundred and fifty kilometers per hour and the downpour hitting the concrete. 

He felt Damen’s adrenaline exhale through his pores and penetrated his own skin. If Laurent had been a bit older, he would have realized that it wasn’t just a game they were playing, or a fight for control. 

He would have realized that he didn’t want to hurt Damen but to own him. Both of those were equally twisted and reproachable. But alas, he was a child. 

Someone’s baby brother. 

After what seemed an eternity, Damen changed lanes again, turned up the lights and entered another parking. Laurent gasped, suddenly aware of the people around them, and let go off the pedal. Damen parked then, in one swift movement, and turned off the engine. 

Looking around, he saw that they were at the music store. 

Then, they came all at once; his senses and Damen’s exasperation. 

Damen turned to him. His eyes were angrier than Laurent had ever seen before and his voice came out almost in a growl, “What the actual fuck, Laurent?” 

Laurent’s hands moved faster than his lips, his voice raised from his throat only after he had opened the car’s door and had a foot out. He said, “Calm down, it was just a game.”

Damen was fast. He grabbed his arm, pulling him back inside, “No, you’re not going anywhere,” voice raising, “Do you know how irresponsible and dangerous that was? If it wasn’t for my reflexes, I would have crashed and killed us both.”

Laurent looked back at him and said, simply, “I knew you wouldn’t crash.”

“You didn’t know anything! You hoped I wouldn’t crash. You’re so smart, I can’t believe this. You’re so smart, how could you do that? We could have killed other people!” And then, “Look at me! For fuck’s sake, don’t you—”

Snapping, “You’re making a big deal out of nothing.”

Disbelievingly, “Nothing?”

The silence that befell was as awful as anything he could have ever experienced. When Damen spoke again, he sounded like a different person. Someone Laurent had never known existed inside of the funny and charming older guy he had fallen for. 

Damen was still holding his arm, his fingers pressing painfully into his skin. It’d probably bruise, “This is not one of your games, Laurent. I’m supposed to keep you safe. If anything happened to you…”

Laurent swallowed. His mouth was dry, and still he could taste bitter, bitter bile. “No one asked you to do it.”

_To keep me safe. To play my games. To be my friend._

“Let me go,” Laurent said, trying to get away from Damen’s grip, “I’m not a child.”

Frustratingly, Damen sighed, letting go off his arm. He said, “Yes, you are. You’re acting just like a child. An immature, irresponsible and selfish child.” Then, Damen whispered, more to himself than Laurent, “I can’t do this.”

Then don’t. 

Then just…

He tried, “Damen.”

“Close the door,” Damen said. An order, not a question. “I’m driving you home right now.”

***

It turned out that the distress he felt never left. If anything, it only grew stronger. 

He felt it as a lump on his throat whenever Auguste tried to talk to him, and then as stones in his stomach that would threaten to sink him further down into this hole he had caved for himself. 

He felt it get bigger and bigger and wrap itself around his neck, constantly tightening the grip and trying to choke him. 

Over the weekend, Laurent got to sit with himself and his thoughts and unresolved jealousy ~~and sanity~~ issues and it was the worst thing that could have happened. Again. He didn’t stand himself and without any proper distraction, he just got angrier and angrier until his own head became unbearable and inhabitable. 

The only respite he got was feeding his pet snake, Clementine, and letting her crawl over his body. Usually he didn’t like to handle her after having eaten, for fear of causing her indigestion, but he needed her calm and so he made an exception. He tried to force himself into control; contain the anger inside as he felt her move around his flat stomach. 

He failed. 

Whispering, “Men are stupid.” 

Clementine replied by tongue-flicking at him, cruising slowly up his chest. Secretly, he hoped she would agree. 

Laurent wanted to thrash his bedroom and make ashes of the memories playing over and over in his head. The coffee shop, the car, the disappointed and yet hysterical look on Damen’s face. 

But instead of shame, Laurent’s blood boiled because of how badly he wished to break Damen’s neck. 

Maybe that’s why, by the time Monday rolled in, he had expected for things to only get worse. Surprisingly so, the day had been more or less uneventful and boring and Laurent had managed to appease the thirst for destruction that seemed to spill from his ears. 

Until.

Aimeric was waiting for him at the entrance. He had convinced him to go to the new candy shop after class, they agreed to meet up by the main doors and take Aimeric’s shiny pink BMW. 

Laurent found Aimeric with his eyes, waiting, with his body leaning against the wall, car keys in hand. Laurent then watched how one of the bullies approached him. It didn’t take long; after a word or two, Aimeric recoiled and the big brute took a handful of Aimeric’s hair, pushing his head back. 

And that was enough for Laurent to lose the last of his control. 

Rushing to where they were, Laurent grabbed the bully by the shoulder and turned him around and away from Aimeric. He said, “Hey Chad,” before punching him straight to the nose. It snapped with a loud crack, followed by a grunt. 

It also hurt like hell. 

The bully gazed up at him, blood running down his nostrils. He punched him back without hesitation, “You motherfucker.”

Laurent took the blow to his nose and staggered backwards but managed to stay afoot. His head pulsed and he could feel his face starting to swell up. Around them, a crowd was starting to form. 

People in school usually loved to whisper, for even morally engaging in these kind of physical altercations was punished as much as a direct implication was. But by the entrance and after class, there was nothing and no one who could say they couldn’t chant. 

Or yell enthusiastically. 

Ironically, Laurent thought, it was just like a cult. 

He had never really engaged in a physical fight before, and to be honest he had no idea of what he was doing right or wrong. So he focused on the person in front of him. _Chad_ , who’d certainly kill him if he doubted now. 

There was no walking away after landing the first blow. 

Chad hit him again. Once in the ribs, twice on the mouth. Laurent felt the blood in his teeth and the sweat dripping from his hair and tried to think of anyway he could win. 

He was so angry it made his muscles tremble and clouded his thoughts. Why would he start something that he couldn’t finish? 

“Laurent,” somehow, he had forgotten about Aimeric, “What the fuck are you doing? Let’s go.” And when he didn’t move, Aimeric tried again, this time pulling him away, “Let’s go, Laurent, before someone sees us.”

Laurent shook Aimeric’s hand away, “You leave if you want to.” 

“You’re crazy, he’s going to kill you.”

Laurent ignored it. 

He was tired and in pain and frustratingly desperate to break someone’s neck but he didn’t have the physical form to do it. So when Chad came for him again, throwing his body weight so as to push him against the wall, Laurent did the only thing he could think of to earn him some time, and kicked him in the balls. 

The bully fell to the ground in silent pain and Laurent took satisfaction in the way his eyes seemed to roll and his eyelids shut forcibly in agony. The air grew awfully tense in anticipation, so he kicked him again, on the face this time, with enough force to knock him over. 

_I hate you_ , Laurent thought, over and over. 

And his worlds blurred together. And he could no longer differentiate rage from anything else. There was blood in his tongue and his face and he could feel the pumps of his resilient heart inside of him. 

He thought, I _hate you. I hate you. I hate that I can’t think._

_I hate that you’ve done this to me. And that I can’t hurt you._

_And for one minute I just want to be cruel._

For one minute, Laurent kneeled over the fallen bully and punched him again on the face. And again. And again. And again. And there was no stopping anymore. His knuckles connected to swollen flesh and there was a crack that exploded in pain all across his right arm. However, he continued until he didn’t know whose pain was louder. 

Aimeric’s voice found its way to his ears again, this time almost pleading. The concern in his voice didn’t manage to raise any alarm in his head. “Laurent,” he said, “Stop it, let it go, he can’t fight you anymore.”

“He won’t hurt you anymore,” he heard himself say, although it seemed something that wasn’t happening to him at all. 

He was not even there. He was…

“I’m fine,” Aimeric said, pulling him away from the bully on the ground, “Let’s go now. Stop.”

He hated that word too.

 _Stop_. 

Laurent didn’t want anyone to tell him when to stop. He wasn’t a child. 

“Laurent De Vere,” he heard, and he didn’t know to look to know it was the vice principal he so detested, “What do you think you’re doing?”

Someone had called her the commotion around them had dissipated. There were a few people watching them still, but only out of fear. Aimeric was one of them. 

_Honestly?_ He wanted to say, _I have no idea._

***

Despite his many protests, Aimeric dragged him to the infirmary to check on his wounds. 

Technically speaking, neither of them could go until they talked to the vice principal. And in Laurent’s case, not until someone from his family came over to pick him up, which would surely be anything but delightful. 

Chad was the first one to be questioned. So in the meantime, they crossed the campus and descended the stairs that lead to the infirmary. The pain in his ribs echoed with every step, and he worried that anything inside him was broken. 

~~At least physically and biologically speaking.~~

They were told that the nurse was still out on her lunch break and would be back a little later to tend on him, so just to sit and await. Laurent sat down gratefully, grimacing only when he breathed out. 

But as it was well known, Aimeric had the patience of a three year old child, so he started to tend to his wounds himself. At least the easy, most obvious ones, like his bloody nose and mouth. 

“I’m surprised he didn’t break your glasses,” Aimeric said, motioning for him to take them off. 

Laurent did so obediently, not in the mood to call Aimeric off. His eyes squeezed shut against the bright white light of the room. He sighed, then leaned his head back, “That would have been a problem.”

“What the hell was that about, anyway?” Aimeric asked, pressing an alcohol-infused cotton pad on his face. It cooled him off and smelled clean. He liked it a bit too much. “Are you trying to get yourself expelled right before graduation?” And then, before he could even phantom an answer from his mashed-peas brain, “Please tell me this was not one of your dares.”

The alcohol burnt, but he didn’t recoil. 

Softly, Laurent said, “No.” Damen would never dare him into a fist fight. The truth came out painfully, “I fucked up.” And in pieces, “With Damen.”

Aimeric’s hands were gentle. So gentle, Laurent suddenly imagined him baking those cookies he loved so much. He hated that Aimeric could be kind to him even in the moments he himself wouldn’t be kind. He hated that sometimes Aimeric seemed to know what was better for him before he even thought of it. 

Perhaps that was just how friendships worked; to hold each other’s hands during a thunderstorm. 

Laurent regarded Aimeric in silence for a minute. Numberless days spent together meant that silence was no longer awkward between them. They knew how the other’s mind worked enough to anticipate the next few lines and paragraphs without preamble. 

Still, he wondered, if Aimeric’s perception had changed. If, arriving tomorrow, there would be something that made him change his mind about their so-called deal they made at thirteen. 

Could a friendship be tainted with so little? 

When Aimeric spoke again, the words weren’t accusatory, if anything just a statement, “So you’ve got yourself a bloody nose and bruised ribs because of Damen.”

He breathed out and another wave of pain followed. Laurent said, “Yes.”

Aimeric sighed, pressing a gauze to his left cheek, “You’re an idiot.”

Laurent couldn’t respond. It was hard to gather up his thoughts. He tried, uselessly, to find anything coherent inside his mind. But there were no words at all. No feelings, no voice to call him out of his recklessness. All the alarms had been shut down, and he was left alone with his pain. 

As if his own brain was reprimanding him with silence. 

The numbness scared him for he was not used to it. He wasn’t used to this cold, perennial blankness. 

Where was he? His good self. His better self. 

Where was Laurent? And who was he, as a replacement inside his body? 

Who was he becoming? 

Again, he said, “Yes.”

“Laurent,” Aimeric said his name and it sounded brand new to his own ears. Ironically, his voice just sounded older, and he had to remember they weren’t children anymore. “Whatever there is between you, it isn’t worth _this_.”

 _Whatever there is between us_ , his thoughts awakened, _is too far from my reach._

“I know.”

“Also, he won’t want you with a ruined face.”

He couldn’t help but smile a little, “I hate you.”

“You despise me, yes.” Aimeric smiled, too, giving another look to all the bruises he had patched up. “Am I missing anything else?”

“My ribs and my dignity.”

“I think the nurse will be able to fix at least one of those.”

“Great,” he joked, “Not like I needed any of my ribs to begin with.” 

Aimeric sat next to him then, gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. Laurent didn’t look at him because he knew it’d embarrass him; instead just let Aimeric aim his worried comforting to the hand he held. 

“Is Auguste picking you up?”

“I hope it’s him and not mom.”

He asked then, a little quieter, “Want me to wait up with you?”

Laurent squeezed his hand back. _Yes._

“No,” he said, pressing his glasses back to his face, “Go home, I’ve already dragged you into this mess.” 

“Well, Chad deserved it anyway,” then, a bit bitterly, “That fucker.”

Slowly, and then all at once, Laurent started to laugh, and then Aimeric was laughing with him. So perhaps nothing had changed. 

Perhaps they’d grown an inch closer and not apart, and it was enough to ease his unintelligible and unknownable heart. 

***

Luckily (or very unluckily) for him, it was Auguste who got the call from the vice-principal and the one to pick him up after the fight. 

After being caught, the one thing he mentally prayed about was that they wouldn’t call his mom. She really didn’t need the add up to her already overflowing sink of things to do or worry about and the least Laurent wanted to do was to disturb her or disappoint her with. Although, perhaps, this time he had crossed the line. 

Upon arriving, Auguste had to talk to the vice-principal alone in her office while Laurent waited outside. He had already been scolded (and threatened to be expelled) a thousand times over. They had also mentioned the possible punishment of not letting him assist his own graduation and having to pick up his diploma the day after. Which, to be fair, sucked if only because it was an event his mom had been looking forward to since the start of his last year. 

She worked a lot. And if what she truly wanted was to see Laurent in an itchy robe posing for ridiculous pictures, then gladly he would. 

After a while, Auguste stepped out of the room and, without even stopping to look at him, said, “Let’s go.”

Laurent followed him in silence. 

His nose was swollen and he could still taste blood in his mouth. The nurse said he’d also broken his thumb and would need for a doctor to check on it sooner than later, but whether it was the proper time to give Auguste the referral or assume his fate of it healing badly, he couldn’t choose which was less painful. 

The drive back home was unbearably long and quiet. Still, Auguste wouldn’t look at him. And this alone pushed his heart to his stomach and dissolved it in gastric acid. 

Perhaps, this time he had crossed an invisible and yet thick line that separated him from all the monsters out there in the world. Annoying, when he doubted his bullies ever got the same treatment whenever they sent him or Aimeric back home with a busted lip and bloody nose.

Was he a monster? He wondered. Why did he have to be good to those who had never been good to him?

Why was it so important that he remained submissive against those who yearned to harm him? 

Why was Auguste ignoring him?

It wasn’t until they were back home that Auguste finally looked at him. He was displeased, that much was evident. To what extent, Laurent was yet to find out. But by the way his eyes darkened and he crossed his arms over his chest, Laurent could already tell it was bad. Auguste gestured for him to sit down on the couch and Laurent did, no questions asked. 

“You’re grounded.” 

Blinking, Laurent said, “Is that the first thing you’re going to tell me?”

“Well what do you want me to say, Laurent? I can’t believe you. How many times have I told you to just _behave_ for once? You’ve given them enough reasons to pull you out of graduation! When mom hears about it, that’s it for you.”

Laurent clenched his jaw, his head throbbed painfully. He felt hot. “What the fuck, Auguste?”

Auguste glared at him, “Mind your language, Laurent. I’m your brother.” And then, “You know what? I’m taking away your video games, all of them. And your novels. And for the rest of the school year, you will come back home straight from school, zero detours with Aimeric.”

“You’re my brother, not my father,” Laurent snapped back, “You can’t ground me! Not even mom grounds me anymore.”

“Mom doesn’t ground you because she doesn’t know half of the shit you’ve been pulling off!”

“Because she’s literally never here!”

It was the truth. Did it hurt him deeply to never see his mother anymore? Yes. Did he ever say anything about it? No.

Because well, Laurent had to be a good son. A perfect son. A quiet son. The independent little brother. The one mature enough to understand that he had no father, an alive and breathing but rarely at home mother and a proud and conceited older brother who seemed to be good only for getting on his nerves. 

Laurent had to always understand, though. Because that’s the role they’d assign him before he was even old enough to know what it meant to be alone. 

Alone and bullied and dissatisfied at only seventeen. 

The brothers stared at each other, waiting for one to surrender to the heavy weight of silence and unspoken words that neither of them were particularly fond of. Laurent thought that he had never wanted so much to insult Auguste and pondered on the fact that if Auguste was anything like him, then he was also feeling the exact same thing. 

This alone hurt him, like a knife driven to his chest. 

_Troublemaker Laurent de Vere, cursed to slay himself with his own words._

Auguste spoke first, a bit softer and still with the same tone of warning before one gets burned, “Don’t be like that. She’s been working hard since dad died, you know that better than anyone. And it’s time you also start thinking about your future.”

Laurent rolled his his eyes, took of his glasses, “Oh cut the crap, Auguste.”

“I’m serious.” Auguste said, “I’m not covering for you anymore. From now on, everything you do, you’ll explain to mom yourself and then you can hear it from her.” His voice shifted back to restrained anger, “What do you think she’s going to say when I tell her you’ve beaten someone up in school, huh? Do you think that’ll please her?”

He tried, “You haven’t even listened to me—”

“It never occurred to me you’d be one to engage in physical fights and be proud of it. I guess there are many things about you that I was wrong about.”

Disappointment hurt. His joints ached. His broken thumb was on fire. And Laurent couldn’t say a coherent thing for the life of him. Perhaps turning into a vengeful creature came with a secret lobotomization. 

“What is that supposed to mean?” he mumbled, “You’re being unfair. I—that bully, he was attacking Aimeric. What was I supposed to do? Just sit down and let it happen?”

“You never hurt people. Ever. Punching someone until they can barely stand is nothing you should be proud of. Only ashamed that you had to use violence to solve a problem.”

Laurent remarked, bitterly, “That’s easy for you to say considering no one ever bullied you.”

“But I never bullied anyone,” Auguste rebuked, “Plus, I’m not an idiot, Laurent. I saw that kid and you were not just defending Aimeric, you were purposely trying to hurt him and I honestly just wish you told me why.”

Insisting, his voice raising and shaking, “Will you let me? Because I—”

_Have been sitting here for half an hour listening to you gloat over lecturing me and the fact that you have been always been the better, perfect sibling and god forbid I do anything to mortify you or mom. Or our dead father._

But he didn’t say any of that. 

Finally, Laurent just exhaled, “He deserved it.” 

“So basically, to retaliate for his bullying, you just decided he was worth a beating. Which means that now you’re no better than him. You attacked him to feel better about yourself. Very well, brother.”

“No, it wasn’t like that.”

“Then how was it? Would you explain me please? I’m trying to understand why in your right mind would you do something like that when we’ve taught you better.”

There were two options now for Laurent. Either he said something closer to the truth, whatever that truth might be, or he would melt into a crying puddle and become one with the earth.

_Ashes to ashes, dust to dust._

_Weepers to puddles. Sinners to hell._

He swallowed, “I was angry, okay? I was angry and he was picking on Aimeric and I just lost it.”

Auguste sighed, “No one deserves to be your punching bag, Laurent. You deal with your anger like a human being, not an animal.”

“But it’s fine that they use me like their punchbag? It’s just fine if I just deal with whatever they throw at me?”

Why did he suddenly just feel like crying? Why was it so difficult to voice out the knot in his throat? 

“Of course it’s not right, Lo. But there are better ways to deal with that, and you know it.”

He couldn’t do it anymore. He tried to breathe, but just choked instead, “I know,” he said finally. “I know. I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry.” He couldn’t throw more logs to the fire. Laurent had fucked up terribly day after day and he didn’t know how to control it anymore. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” he admitted, cracking his knuckles, trying to ease back his tears, “I just feel so confused and angry without a proper reason.”

The voice in his head reprimanded him, _There is a reason._

Auguste softened then, he moved to sit next to him in the couch and rubbed his back, “Ah, Lo. You’re a teenager, it’s normal to feel like that.” 

“I’m seventeen, it’s supposed to get better, not worse.”

Auguste chuckled a bit, “Well, puberty doesn’t really make any sense.” 

Looking up to see his brother’s face broke him. Auguste didn’t look angry nor concerned, just relieved. The next thing he knew, he was crying. 

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

Auguste hugged him, then, and Laurent let himself be held and comforted and soothed, “I know you are. You’re such a good kid, always been.”

“I’m such an idiot. I even broke my thumb.”

“Is your thumb broken?” 

“The nurse said a doctor should check it.”

“Why didn’t you say so sooner?”

“Haven’t you seen yourself when you’re angry? You’re terrifying.”

Auguste groaned, “I probably got that from dad.” And then, “Are you wiping your nose on my shirt?”

He laughed a little, “Of course.” 

“Oh that’s lovely.”

Then, “Do we really have to tell mom?”

Auguste sighed, then ruffled his hair and pulled away, “I’ll think about it.” 

“Thank you.”

Smiling, “What would you do without me?” 

Laurent shrugged, “Bad things. Stupid things.”

_Slide my foot into the pedal while someone else is driving._

“You little troublemaker. I’m not always going to be around to help you.”

“I know that, Charlie Brown,” both of them smiled, “but until then, I’ll make good use of you.” 

“You’re lucky I’m the eldest.”

“I’m the luckiest.”

And that he was, for a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, happy Saturday!
> 
> Another chapter for you; things start to get a tiny bit more interesting from here. 
> 
> As always thanks to Ellen and demon friend from their support and ideas, this whole thing is a crazy ride and literally my brain alone can't handle it. 
> 
> Also, thanks for your comments and messages, they've all been super lovely and make me smile each day!
> 
> "Rainy days and mondays always get me down." & "Funny, but it seems I always wind up here with you" lyrics taken from [Rainy Days and Mondays](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PjFoQxjgbrs) by The Carpenters. 
> 
> "Passion or coincidence / Once prompted you to say / 'Pride will tear us both apart'" lyrics taken from [Ordinary World](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kNbCKtmzTkA) by Duran Duran. (I'm taking the chance to say the acoustic version of this song will always be superior to the normal one, no one can change my mind)
> 
> Feedback and comments fully appreciated! You know where to find me: I'm @princesgambit on twitter (where I spend most of my time) and @dearanemone on tumblr.
> 
> See you next weekend!


	4. Act I: Chapter 4

In another life, they didn’t play any games. 

In another life, there were no dares, and no forgetting they were human, anchored to a body in some planet in the universe. There was no losing track of time or of the life around them.

They cared for other people other than each other and their mutual existence didn’t depend on one another. 

In another life,  _ he _ wouldn’t say they were a mistake and in consequence wouldn’t damage him irreparably. 

~~_ How could you say that? How could you dismiss me so easily?  _ ~~

~~_ I can’t think when I’m near you but I can’t breathe when you’re not around. A mistake? _ ~~

~~_ How could it be a mistake? To love you rather than to lose you.  _ ~~

In another life, maybe, they would have quit, given up on something that clearly couldn’t be. 

Maybe they wouldn’t have even met yet. Maybe they would still be looking out there for a word or a look or sign — a toothy smile, dimples blinding the sun. 

Maybe it would be just a better version of their story. One without mistakes and lies and a carousel box. 

Over the course of his life, Laurent had loved it and hated and buried it and burnt it and thrown it away only to get it right back. He hugged it at night, carried it to class and to coffee shops and interviews and desperately tried to cut it in half. 

He never asked Damen if he’d noticed his murder attempts and Damen never mentioned, but he often wondered if Damen had ever done the same. 

Thrown their treasure in the fire, watch it burn, and pull it right back. 

Maybe, in that other, distant timeline, it’d be like the meet-cute of a movie where they’d walk in opposite directions, and their eyes would meet, and they’d take it from there. 

And it would feel like their life, but a better version. An uncomplicated retelling of how it should have been.

The happy ending.

***

A few days later, Aimeric came over. 

He had nothing to do and was bored out of his mind, so he texted Aimeric asking if he wanted to hang out for a bit. It was a bit of a risk, considering he was still very much grounded and would be until graduation if he didn’t manage to convince Auguste to lift it. But he hoped that Auguste wouldn’t turn Aimeric away at least for a little bit. 

In the end, he’d told their mother about the fight. She didn’t scold him, but he saw her usually relaxed features crinkle in awful consternation. She’d sat with him and asked him about his feelings, but there was not much he could say. 

~~_ I tried to compensate jealousy with violence, mom. I surrendered to my destructive impulses.  _ ~~

_ I am not the person you raised me to be.  _

He often held himself back when it came to talking to his mom. Not because he didn’t trust her or love her, but all through his life Auguste had always highlighted the fact that they had to make the most not to worry her. 

And when Auguste had grown tired of Laurent asking the same questions, he confessed their mother had been severely depressed for a while after their father died, which Laurent only considered normal. Apparently it hadn’t lasted too much; Laurent was still an infant and she had taken care of him, refusing anyone else’s help. When she was able to go back to work, she went without hesitation, and eventually her visible sadness faded until it was just another page in their family book. 

Of course, he couldn’t remember most of it. Maybe glimpses, the same way he did about his dad. But Auguste was older and it had marked him, even if he denied it. 

Sometimes, Laurent thought Auguste was just worried about losing the only parent they had left and it broke his heart into pieces. It made him sick to think he was maybe causing her problems or pain and therefore also giving Auguste anxiety. 

So he had apologized to both of them and accepted his punishment, which meant he came back home from school as soon as classes were over and didn’t try the lock of the drawer where Auguste had shoved his video games. 

The books he didn’t take, because in the end Auguste wasn’t a monster  ~~ like he was ~~ and didn’t punish him gladly. He spent his afternoons reading and doing homework and studying for presentations that were due. 

It was Saturday again, exactly one week after the car incident with Damen. They hadn’t spoken since, and he hadn’t come over to see Auguste either. But he hadn’t returned the box, so maybe there was still hope. 

Maybe. 

Laurent still saw him, though, sometimes. When he sat on his windowsill to write — because it was the spot where he thought better, which sounded ridiculous but was true— he would look outside and catch Damen through the window of the house next door. It wasn’t his bedroom, but a random spot in the hall that connected the lower and upper floors. Maybe he was speaking on the phone or arranging flowers on a vase, or just passing by, but he never once looked his way.

Part of him was always relieved. The other part didn’t take it well. 

Today, unlike the previous Saturday, was sunny and hotter. May was getting closer to its end and soon spring would lead to summer which meant he’d hide under every shade he could find and live attached to an electric fan. The joys of hot weather. 

His only comfort was the summer downpours they got in June, cooling the earth before it became an active volcano until autumn. 

Laurent was lying in bed, on top of his covers, with Clementine curling around his arm, even though he was still in pyjamas and hadn’t yet made an attempt to figure out the weekend ahead of him. Somehow, in spite of feeling defeated, he also felt calm. 

No traces of anger or disgust, just a tranquility that travelled his entire body. 

A soft knock came from the door followed by Aimeric’s voice, “Lo? It’s me. Can I come in?”

Laurent rolled his eyes at the nickname and called, “Yes, come in.”

Aimeric entered then, clicking the door shut behind him and walking to his bed, “I baked you a cake, but Auguste confiscated it. I managed to slip you the cookies in, though.” He stopped dead when he saw Clementine and made a noise of repulsion, “Can you put her back into her cage or something?”

“It’s not a cage,” Laurent said, petting Clementine’s head with a finger, “It’s a terrarium, and now you’re being very rude to her. How would you feel if I talked bad about Holly?”

“There’s not a single bad thing you could say about Holly, she’s a bunny.” 

Laurent looked up to him then, then grinned, “Like one of the girls in  _ The House Bunny. _ ”

Aimeric sighed, annoyed, “Fine,” but dropped his bag to the floor and laid down to him anyway, shoulders touching. 

“I told you not to call me  _ ‘Lo’ _ ,” he said, letting Clementine crawl over his chest, “What if I started calling you Eric from now on?”

“You can,” Aimeric said, “But that’s basically an entire new name.”

“What about,” and after a bit, he said, “What about  _ ‘Mer’ _ then?”

“Doesn’t that mean  _ ‘sea’ _ in french?”

“Salty just like you.”

Aimeric laughed sarcastically, “What a comedian.”

“Can I have the cookies now? I haven’t eaten.”

Passing him the plastic box with cookies, Aimeric pointed out, “Or showered.”

Laurent grabbed the box and opened it, putting one cookie in his mouth and taking a bite, then fakingly offended said, “Are you telling me I smell?”

“No,” Aimeric shrugged, “But you’re still in pyjamas. It’s not that hard of an equation.”

“It’s still early.”

“It’s almost lunch time.”

“It’s Saturday, that’s basically the equivalent to six a.m. on a Monday.”

“Sure,” Aimeric said, not convinced. Then, a little quieter, “I received my acceptance letter today.”

“Already?”

“Yeah, Orlant received his too. Yours is probably arriving soon as well.”

“Congratulations,” Laurent said, munching on another cookie, “But I still think you’d be better going to cooking school.”

Aimeric shifted to look at him, “Did you apply to journalism in the end?” 

He did the same, “Yeah. Also for linguistics. I think, if I get both, I’ll go for linguistics.”

“You’re good with languages and you hate the media, I think it’s a good choice.”

“What are you doing then? Business?”

“You know my dad, it was either Business or Law, and I’d rather break my teeth one by one than go to Law school.”

“You don’t seem too convinced about Business either, in my opinion.”

Aimeric shrugged, although to Laurent, he seemed sad, “I don’t think my opinion matters much.” And then, suddenly, “Have you talked to Damen?”

_ Ah.  _

The name echoed painfully in his guts. He shook his head, “Auguste won’t let me put one foot outside of the house. He’s being a massive pain in the ass.”

“He hasn’t visited either? That’s odd.”

Clementine seemed to have found her way through his golden locks, but he resisted the urge to scratch his head, “I guess he’s still mad.”

“He’ll come around eventually.”

“Do you think so? We’ve never really been,” for lack of a better term, “Radio silence.”

“He’s probably busy. Doesn’t he have finals now?”

“Yeah, but…”

“Was it so bad what happened between you?”

“No,” he blurted out, trying to pull down his sleeves and cover his hands. And because it was Aimeric who asked, he tried to force some of the truth out, “We went to a coffee shop to bribe the barista into putting laxatives into his teacher’s drink.”

Aimeric’s eyes widened slightly, “Bribe the barista? How? You gave her money?”

_ I wish. _

“No,” he rolled his eyes, “Damen  _ flirted _ with her.”

“Oh.”

Whispering, “It’s whatever.” 

“Did you two have a fight?”

Laurent grimaced, taking Clementine from his hair and putting her back on his chest, where she curled up in a nest, right above his heart. He said, “Not exactly.”

_ I almost killed us, though.  _

“I think you should go see him and talk.”

“What is there to talk about, Mer? He doesn’t see me that way, I’m just his  _ friend’s annoying little brother. _ ” 

“So he said that.” 

“Maybe you were right, you know; I should just give up on him. It’s not worth it. We’re starting college next autumn.” 

Even if the idea of giving up on Damen made his stomach turn and his brain scream until the very thought was drowned, never to resurge again. 

“That won’t do,” Aimeric said, poking Clementine with a finger. She didn’t move. “Clearly, you still want to be friends with him, right? Then you should apologize.” 

“What if he doesn’t want to see me or listen to me?”

“Then you kiss him,” Aimeric looked up to meet his eyes, “He’ll have to listen to you then.”

Laurent’s heart beated so fast he thought it’d startle Clementine. It pounded so strongly he wanted to hold his chest and soothe it out. 

_ Hello, my old heart _

_ How have you been? _

_ Are you still there inside my chest?  _

_ Kiss him _ , he thought.  _ Kiss him?  _ He feared he would be ill if he tried. Because, what if...he was rejected? He would be. Obviously he would be. there was no way in hell it’d work. 

_ Kiss him?  _

It was a chance though. A chance to just...feel how it could be. Maybe it’d be enough, a taste, to give it an ending. 

Kiss him, and go to college and become a new person.

Kiss him,  _ Damen _ , and put an end to his fantasy. 

_ Kiss Damen, _ and finish this game. 

Win the game. Kiss Damen. 

Laurent felt like he was debating whether or not to eat the forbidden fruit from the bible and he felt himself flush bright red. 

He said, out loud, entirely by accident, “And then what?” 

Aimeric grinned, “That’s for you to figure out.”

***

The next day, Laurent found himself staring at his reflection in the mirror. 

His mom was working as per usual, and Auguste had to go out to cover a shift on his internship, which meant he was all alone in the house except for Greta, the lady that cleaned and made him meals whenever they weren’t around. 

Which was obviously, more than usual. 

He was fresh from the shower, his hair still a bit wet and falling on his forehead with a trail of droplets. He had dressed quickly, though, and hoped the sun would help to dry his locks faster than borrowing his mom’s hair dryer would. 

~~ Plus the hairdryer always made him look like a poodle and  _ how embarrassing _ , he wasn’t up to that today.  ~~

He gave his denim jacket a little tug, leaned closer to take a better look at his face. He touched his own chin, then ran a finger along his nose, not sure of what he was searching for. 

A dash of imperfection, perhaps. Something that scared him into retreating from this well-cultured plan of going over to the house next door and apologize to Damen for his incredibly recklessness and irresponsible behaviour of the past weekend. 

But puberty had treated him well, for it had —mostly— spared him the pains of acne and an odd increment on facial hair. 

Frowning, he thought that perhaps it wasn’t a good thing, after all. He wanted to look older, more mature, but here he was still looking like he was twelve. Auguste had assured him that he looked his age, but family couldn’t be trusted on these things. 

In a moment of doubt, he texted Aimeric.

_ L: Do you think I look twelve years old? _

After a beat, Aimeric replied. 

_ A: You are twelve years old.  _

_ L: Fuck you too.  _

Biting his lip, he sighed and turned around to face the terrarium, “What do you think Clementine? Tongue-flick once for good, twice for impending disaster.”

Clementine, curled up in a corner and seemingly sleeping with her eyes wide open, ignored him completely. Laurent pet her with his index finger, anyway. 

Quietly, “I hate it when you stay neutral.”

_ Muster some courage, Laurent de Vere. Gather up some gumption.  _

So he did. He could feel his  ~~ faint ~~ heart beating in his own mouth, a massive but invisible shape he could almost grasp with his teeth but that remained impalpable. Laurent forced his throat to try and swallow it back down, pleading with himself to keep it together for a little bit. There was nothing to be afraid of except ultimate rejection and a hole of self-pity to drown in, if things were to go very wrong. 

Right, only that. 

Leaving Clementine in his bedroom, he made his way downstairs as fast as he could, jumping the last set of steps and almost breaking one of his mom vases as he did so. 

It made him smile a little. 

He left through the back door, just in a corner of the kitchen, saying goodbye to Greta and explaining he’d be over at Damen’s if anyone asked, although he was sure no one would. 

***

Kastor was the one to open the door. 

As brothers, Kastor and Damen did and did not share a resemblance. For instance, Damen was the exact copy of their father, while Kastor was the same but scattered in pieces, sort of like a puzzle. Together, you could tell they were related, but there was something a little odd that made you look again, see if you could spot the non-belonging. 

If you knew them as well as Laurent did, you could tell they walked the same way and also laughed the same, except Kastor rarely did when Damen found the funny side to every single thing. The shape of their heads was identical as well as the way their hair curled on the top of their head. And Kastor was older, yes, but when he had been younger, closer to Damen and Auguste’s age now, he looked very much like Damen. 

The only thing that wasn’t right was …

_ The eyes _ , Laurent always thought, gave them away. Damen had the kindest, warmest eyes that always seemed to be inviting you to join an inside joke, but whenever Kastor looked at him, he felt like a bug being scrutinized under a microscope.

“Laurent,” he said, expression bored as per usual, “Damen’s in the garden.” 

And of course, Kastor hated him. Plain and simple. 

Before he could answer, Kastor closed the door on his face and Laurent thought better of opening the door and kick him in the shin. Instead, he turned on his heel and rounded the garage, following the trail of rose bushes to the garden. 

Damen had always been good with plants and flowers, something cultivated by his mother and severely discouraged by his father. When they were children, Laurent often told people he wanted to be a swiss roll when he grew old; Damen wanted to be a florist. 

And Auguste wanted to be a superhero, but that he had always been from day one. 

It was too late for Laurent to pursue his dream of becoming a swiss roll. One often had to start building up the whipped cream from a young age to be able to have enough to cover oneself with it. But there was still time for Damen’s dream job, with his college degree just around the corner. 

He had chosen a career that pleased his father, pretty much like Aimeric was doing, and so Laurent wondered if he had been lucky to not have a father at all. 

Laurent found Damen tending to the pink rose bushes. The smell was intoxicating to the point of making his already terrified heart go dizzy, and as he approached, he couldn’t help but feel hypnotized by the way Damen moved; so firm and yet careful. Humming to himself, seemingly lost in his own head. 

Maybe instead of a swiss roll or a linguist, Laurent should have been a flower. 

A gust of wind startled him, pushing him forward. He stumbled, giving awkward steps to regain balance, and Damen turned his face to him. 

His heart skipped a beat and buried itself in his stomach. There were a million things he could have thought of, but they all escaped him. 

_ He’s beautiful.  _

_ He’s looking at me like I’m a funny joke. He’s not angry, not the way I— _

For a minute, Laurent considered dying. He wanted to close his eyes and disappear, but he couldn’t. The sun was on his back, drying his hair and making him start to sweat. The bees were buzzing, jumping from bulb to bulb, surrounding him with their yellow polen. 

The world, always against him, whispering,  _ Speak up now. _

_ What are you waiting for, Laurent?  _

_ Do we need to spell it out for you?  _

“Hi,” he said, finally. It came out high pitched and with the hint of nervous laughter. 

Amused, Damen said, “Hi.” and then, “Don’t let the wind blow you away.”

Taking a few steps closer, Laurent came to stand next to him, “Can we talk?”

Damen’s eyes were on his for a second, then gone the next. He moved towards a pot full of a type of flower Laurent couldn’t name. They had a strange colouring; blue and purple and pink all together, blending as if in a watercolour painting. 

Laurent followed him, brushing his fingers against the petals as Damen watered them. He asked, “What are these called?”

“Hydrangeas.”

“They’re beautiful.”

Damen didn’t answer. He kept moving from flower to flower, just like the bees, and Laurent followed. They were waltzing around apology and forgiveness like it’d kill them if they let themselves be grazed by any of the two. 

It was strange. Damen didn’t seem mad, but still avoided him. Laurent wanted to hold him still, and then...nothing. Just hold him. 

_ Hold him.  _

_ Kiss him.  _

“I heard you got yourself into a fight.”

Hold up his hand, Laurent said, “I broke my thumb.”

Laughing, “Oh, Laurent.”

“It serves me right,” Laurent confessed, “For being an ass.” Looking up, he tried to find Damen’s eyes. When he did, he said, “I’m sorry for being an ass.”

Damen smiled. Finally, he stopped moving. “I know.”

“You’re not mad?”

Shaking his head, “I haven’t been mad in days. But still, when I saw you, I wanted to make you suffer a little.”

“I deserved that.”

“Apology accepted,” Damen said, then proceeded to cut a yellow flower from the vase in front of them. He presented it to Laurent, making him blush instantly. 

“What is this called?” he asked, feeling a bit silly at not being able to remember the names even after so many years knowing Damen. He breathed it in, it was a fresh yet sweet aroma. It reminded him of summer. 

“Alstroemeria,” Damen replied, “The yellow colour means—”

He guessed, “Forgiveness?”

“Friendship.”

“You really should be a florist.”

“You think so?

Laurent shook his head, dipping the tip of his nose in the weird-named flower. “I know so.”

“Then I’ll be a florist and you will be,” after a minute, smiling at the memory, “A swiss roll.”

He chuckled, “With strawberries on top.” 

“You always said the strangest things as a child.”

“I was keen on not being ordinary. It bored me.”

“How could you get bored with a brain as big as yours?” 

_ Nothing catches my attention. Nothing, except...one person. _

Laurent shrugged, placing the stem of the flower over his right ear, “It is a blessing and a curse to be as smart as I am.”

Damen rolled his eyes, “How modest.”

“Are you busy today?”

“Not really. Why?”

“I was wondering if you’d help me pick a birthday present for Auguste.” 

Nodding, “Sure. I can drive us to the mall.”

“Technically speaking, I’m still grounded. So it’d be better if we went before Auguste’s back home.”

“You little brat,” Damen hoffed, “You’re just using me to help you sneak out!”

“I already sneaked out, you dumbass.” 

Damen was already moving towards the house when he said, “Alright, I’ll get the car keys.” Then, he stopped. He turned around to see him, calling his name in a strange yet careful voice. 

Laurent couldn’t read him at all. “Yeah?”

“Would you promise me to never do something as reckless as  _ that _ again?”

Feigning ignorance, “As what?”

Damen gave him a look, “ _ Laurent. _ ”

“Okay,” Laurent blurted out, “I promise.”

It was a good thing, he thought, that Damen couldn’t see him crossing his fingers behind his back.

***

The mall was packed. 

It was one of his favourites, half enclosed and half opened, surrounded by green areas and water canals. Since it was sunny, Damen had suggested an outlet, but most of the people in town had had the same idea, so they opted for the one a bit further away. There were families and groups of teenagers scattered all over the place; eating ice cream by the fountains and toddlers splashing water all around. 

In spite of how noisy and suffocating people were, it was nice to hang out with Damen and fall back into the routinary banter they had kept for years. Damen had brought the box, but he was yet to make a dare. 

In the meantime, they looked around for a bit, trying to find a present for Auguste, but nothing was catching their eye. Damen had confessed, however, to having already bought a gift. It was an old, vintage vinyl collection of british rock that Auguste adored and he had found online by chance. 

What a joke. 

It made him a bit jealous, because he knew Auguste would love it as he loved everything Damen gave him. 

Not that he didn’t appreciate his gifts, but the thing was that Auguste had everything already, and any gift Laurent could give him would be a materialistic addition to his collection of general stuff and trinkets. 

Somehow, Damen always outdid him one way or another. 

“Any ideas so far?” Damen asked. 

They were sitting at the food court, sharing an order of fries and sipping on milkshakes. Laurent chewed on his straw, thinking for a moment. 

“None at all.”

“Maybe a challenge would inspire you.” 

He felt himself grinning as Damen set rolling the carousel box on the table towards him. He stopped it before it could fall off. 

“How did your last dare go? With your teacher.”

“He had to call off the class because,” Damen paused, clearly trying not to laugh, “He was literally shitting his pants.” 

Laurent laughed. “Good. Did you enjoy it?”

“Very much.”

“Okay, so what’s my dare now?”

“See the people over there?” Damen gestured with a nod where a couple was sitting. Laurent nodded. “Go there and throw their food to the floor.”

“What are you,” Laurent said, “Ten?”

“Ah, so I guess I win then.”

“It’s childish even for you.”

“You yield?”

Laurent rolled his eyes, then smiled, “We’re getting our asses kicked for this, you know?”

“You mean  _ you _ are.”

Laurent stood up, grabbing the box with one hand and giving him the finger with the other. Damen just laughed, waving him goodbye.

_ This fucker.  _

It was a childish stupid thing to do. If anything, it was only a warm-up, considering all the other dares they had done in the past. 

He still felt the thrill though. It always started in his chest, his heart beating oddly, adrenaline spiking up his senses, all thoughts sidelined. 

Laurent went up to the couple, who stopped talking and looked at him, silently telling him to get lost. “Kid,” the man called, “Do you need anything?”

Laurent took a glance back at Damen, who mouthed:  _ Do it.  _

_ One, two, three. Fuck it. _

And so he did. In one swift movement, Laurent reached over, sweeping the food off the table with his arm. It all went crashing down to the couple’s feet, the woman gasping and cursing while the man stood up, grabbing Laurent by his shirt’s collar.

“You little shit, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?!”

“Laurent!” Damen’s voice called, “Run!”

In a second, Damen was behind the man, throwing the rest of his milkshake over his head. He swore, taking his hands to his face and releasing Laurent. 

Damen reached for his arm, both laughing as they got away. 

“He was ready to kill me,” Laurent said as they ran through the halls. People got off the way, watching them as they went. A security guard yelling that they shouldn’t be running. 

Damen panted, “I would have killed him first.” 

Laurent’s heart did a little stunt, and he felt himself flush. 

_ Would you really kill someone for me?  _

It seemed crazy to think, much more to even try and say it outloud. So he kept it to himself, saving it in the little box of reasons why  ~~ he loved him ~~ Damen was a dumbass. 

“I’m gonna puke,” he said as they stopped. He was out of breath, trying to keep the food on his stomach but feeling it bubble dangerously. 

“Shit,” Damen whispered, “Shit. Okay, take deep breaths.”

Laurent did, trying to focus on his breathing and holding his stomach. Damen took his hand, guiding him slowly to a bench and sitting him down. 

In spite of cold sweat and jiggly legs, all Laurent could think of was Damen holding his hand, ever so softly. If he weren’t one minute away from vomiting all over his feet, he’d swoon. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you had downed the entire milkshake in five minutes.”

Laurent glared at him, “I’ll aim at your shoes as revenge.”

Damen chuckled, “I would prefer if you didn’t.”

A minute or two passed, Damen rubbing his back comfortingly and looking around in case any of the security guards had decided to go after them. 

Once the nausea receded, he took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, “That was close.”

“Better?” Damen asked, leaning over to brush the hair off his face. 

Laurent’s cheeks went instantly pink. He nodded, “I’m fine now.” 

“Do you want me to take you home?”

“Oh, absolutely not,” Laurent said, handing back the box to Damen, “Now it’s your turn, my dearest brute.”

***

What followed was a series of dares that almost got them thrown out of the mall. 

Laurent dared Damen to eat raw fish from the supermarket, laughing whenever Damen dry heaved. Damen retaliated, daring Laurent to pretend to be a mannequin in one of the windows, a Victoria’s Secret bra worn over his clothes, and then proceeding to laugh and hold his phone over Laurent’s head as the teen tried to take it and delete the pictures. 

As revenge, Laurent dared Damen to jump from one of the escalators to the one below them, which he did successfully and without breaking a leg. Laurent had called him an animal. 

“Get ten bucks in coins from the fountain,” Damen said after.

Laurent replied, “I’m going to get an infection.” 

“Bad weed never dies.” Damen winked, handing him the box.

And so Laurent found himself, ankles deep in the fountain, picking up coins and destroying people’s wishes. 

“People are so greedy. It’s only pennies here.”

A stupid game? Maybe so, but it was their game. 

Nothing they did made sense, and the burning fuel was both their competitiveness and the depth of their friendship. Neither Damen nor Laurent would ever find anyone that could give them the same amount of hate and happiness at the same time, perfectly balanced. No one else would ever give them the charm and the adrenaline and the yearning for outdoing one another. No one would make them laugh just as hard, or push the limits of what they were willing to do for a smile, a wink, a sign of approval. 

And no one else could understand, either. It was a game. It was their lives. 

It was Damen stealing a pack of gum for the first time in his life, only because Laurent had challenged him to. And Laurent calling him a coward and a baby and shaking a can of cola before Damen opened it just for it to burst and splash on his face. 

In those moments, they would think that if their game was wrong, then they’d be wrong forever. 

To hell with it all. 

***

By the time they thought of leaving, exhausted and hungry and in need of a shower, Laurent remembered about the present. 

Because of course, that was the only reason why they came to the mall and if he didn’t get it now, he wouldn’t have time to do it before Auguste’s birthday. 

So after collapsing on a bench for around half an hour, watching people and inventing stories about them as entertainment, they decided to check a few more shops. They passed a music box shop, ran by a tall man who looked so much like Damen it could have might as well be his doppelgänger, except for his green eyes. Laurent had a moment of innocence, opening and winding up music boxes, wondering if his mom would enjoy one for her jewelry. 

Surprisingly, Damen knew a few of the classical pieces, adding random facts about Tchaikovsky (“ _ He killed himself by drinking contaminated water and got cholera” _ ) and Mozart (“ _ Antonio Salieri claimed to have poisoned Mozart, but no one believed them and so no one really knows why he died.” _ ) that Laurent had no idea about. 

There were so many things about Damen that he didn’t know. He wanted to ask so many questions, but he couldn’t bring himself to make any of them. 

After that, they came upon an antiques shop. They had everything from furniture to astonishingly beautiful board games made of wood or glass and that costed a fortune. The aisles were packed with stuff; leather goods and jackets. To be antique, everything was well-preserved, to the point of looking unused. 

That’s where Laurent found them; a pair of retro Ray Ban sunglasses from the 70s. They looked exactly like the aviator pair his dad had in pictures, and that had gotten stolen at some point. 

Laurent changed his normal glasses for the Ray Ban, asking Damen to turn and look. “Auguste will love these.” 

Both of them smiled. 

***

May 21st was on a Thursday, and so they arranged a small birthday party for Auguste. 

He usually also celebrated with his university friends, but they’d decided to do it on Friday, after their finals. And so on Thursday, Auguste was home early as well as their mother, for a change. 

Laurent had spent the afternoon decorating the backyard and making the cake with Aimeric, who almost had a heart attack when he’d realized Laurent had used salt instead of sugar and they had to remake the batter. 

First time making a cake went well. He’d only burnt three of them, but the fourth one was perfect, mostly thanks to Aimeric telling him to get out of the kitchen and let him work. In the end, Laurent had just decorated it with whipped cream and chopped fruit. 

“Team work,” Laurent said, placing the last strawberry. 

“Team work my ass,” Aimeric rolled his eyes, “You cannot be left alone on a kitchen or the whole room will explode.”

Laurent considered it for a moment. “Pretty much the same thing would happen if I walked into a church.”

Aimeric snorted, “Do please pretend to be possessed during graduation mass. You already have the soulless eyes and the sickly complexion, you're a perfect demon.”

“Game”, Laurent replied.

“It’s not a dare.”

“Challenge accepted.”

“Ugh,  _ Laurent _ .” Aimeric sighed, “It was a joke.”

Laurent grabbed the corner of his lips and made a silly face, darting his eyes backward as he did so, “Possessed enough for you?”

Aimeric grabbed a fist of flour, then blew it to his face. “Perfect” 

Laurent coughed, taking off his glasses, “Asshole.”

The only thing that refrained Laurent from starting a food fight in the kitchen was the sight of his mom, entering and laughing at his flour covered face.

“Oh sweetie,” she said, holding his face between her hands, “what happened?”

“Aimeric attacked me,” Laurent said, “I feared for my life.” 

Aimeric shrugged, “I stand by innocent until proven guilty.”

His mom laughed, wiping the flour off his face with a wet kitchen towel, then kissing his forehead softly. “You guys can go to the garden, Auguste is there already. I’ll put the cake in the fridge.”

“Did you leave a mark?” Laurent asked, rubbing at his forehead. 

“Yes. It’s long wear lipstick, it won’t come off without makeup remover.”

Laurent groaned, “Mom!”

“I’m kidding, there’s no mark.” she chuckled, “Now go. Auguste is waiting.” 

***

Their little party consisted on a lot of snacks, music and board games chosen by Laurent so he could win most of the rounds. He sided with Aimeric against Damen and Auguste’s team, but eventually their mother was the one snatching all the victories. 

Auguste was turning twenty-four. He looked more and more like their father with each passing day. Even Laurent, who hadn’t met their father properly, could tell. He often compared them in pictures, and in a way it was comforting for him to kind of see his dad through Auguste. 

Even if it was in small things, or just in their appearance. It was enough to feel like he was there, split in each of their hearts, Auguste being a mirror. 

Maybe it was bad to think so, for one couldn’t replace the other. But Auguste had basically helped raise him, so the comparisons were made in his head before he could even analyse them. 

Laurent got a little nervous, though, when it was time for the presents. Suddenly he had this fear of having made a mistake. What if Auguste didn’t like them, after all? What if they were just a painful reminder of what they’ve lost? 

He hesitated, but handed the box at last. He had wrapped in a simple but elegant golden paper, with a shiny blue bow on top. 

“Happy 24s, Gus,” Auguste read his note outloud, “I hope to keep annoying you for many more.” 

Everyone chuckled. Auguste took off the bow, then destroyed the wrapper. “Oh, brother, did you get me something fancy?”

“No, it’s just…” he trailed off, “A small thing.”

Auguste looked up at him, smiled, then proceeded to open the box, “Oh.”

Next to him, their mom asked, “What is it, honey?” 

Auguste held the sunglasses for everyone to see, “They’re just like dad’s.”

Shyly, Laurent asked, “Do you like them?”

He barely had time to finish the question, for Auguste was pulling him into a tight hug. He held them so fiercely, Laurent thought he’d crush him. With love, that is, but still. 

“You’re the best brother one could ever have,” Auguste whispered against his hair, “Thank you.”

Laurent returned the hug, his voice came muffled, “I’m the only brother you have.”

“And the only one I’ll ever need.”

“I’ll always be here,” Laurent said softly, “Always.”

Auguste kissed his head before pulling away, “What would I do without you?”

This time, Laurent said, sincerely, “That’ll never happen.”

Except that, someday, it would. But neither could tell exactly when. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello guys!
> 
> I'm a bit late but still made it in time, apologies for the delay. 
> 
> Your comments regarding Ch.3 and Laurent's crazy behaviour were amazing. I added a new tag, "Laurent, what the fuck" because it just deserved to be there. Keep them coming please, your reactions and predictions are both hilarious and amazing!
> 
> I'm very, very happy that you all seem to be enjoying this story so far, I couldn't ask for anything more. I'm so excited for us to get to the best bits of the plot, but but but I'll refrain from saying anything else. 
> 
> As always, thanks to Ellen and demon-friend for their constant support while coming up with crazy ideas and then editing those crazy ideas and making them work in this little world we've created. 
> 
> "Hello, my old heart / How have you been? / Are you still there inside my chest?" lyrics taken from [Hello My Old Heart](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BeGU_em4wgQ) by The Oh Hellos.
> 
> Feedback and comments fully appreciated! You know where to find me: I'm [princesgambit](https://twitter.com/princesgambit) on twitter (where I spend most of my time) and [dearanemone](https://princesgambit.co.vu/) on tumblr.
> 
> Check out Linger's playlist on Spotify [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3xzKQO5iKGl5LmoLbJUxUq?si=SD0-xQXHQy6TuYFZ1NrkUg). 
> 
> See you next week!


	5. Act I: Chapter 5

_It was summer._

_You said, as we looked upwards to the sky full of stars, “Maybe we met again because we were supposed to.”_

_We had sand in our hair. We were high on glory and wine and affection._

_I was the most yours I’ve ever managed to be._

_You were the most mine you’ve ever allowed me to have._

_You grabbed my hand, fingers intertwined. I let you place it over your heart. I felt the rise and fall of your chest, each of the beats that echoed as proof of your existence._

_Your life is of the utmost importance to me. You’re necessary to my existence._

_I asked, “Do you believe in destiny then?” mostly because I didn’t. I wanted to be proven wrong._

_I wanted you to say we were always meant to be and I was a fool for believing otherwise._

_“I believe we’ve met each other already,” you whispered. Distantly, I could still hear the sea. “In a previous life or another universe.”_

_More than anything, I wanted to keep you in my orbit. I wanted those moments to linger till we grew old and couldn’t distinguish from what we had been or what we were or what we were supposed to._

_I looked at you, I asked for a promise. You said, “Yes, anything.”_

_“Find me again in the next life.”_

_And the one after. And the one after that. And all the multiple parallel universes that surrounded ours. I wanted you to clash into my life and be the definitely unexpected maybe that’d change me._

_“I will,” you said, smiling. “In each and every single one we have. I’ll find you.”_

_Instead, you killed me in this one. And I’m destined to bleed out for my entire, miserable eternity, of wounds that never heal but rather linger._

_Unchanged and unloved. And cursed to feel and do what I must not._

_It was summer. I cried so hard I died._

***

On the last day of May, his letter arrived. 

It took longer than Aimeric’s and definitely more than most of his classmates, but he wasn’t that much worried. He had applied to other schools, so most likely one of them would have to accept him. 

Plus, his grades were good. He was second for two trimesters, then first of his class during the last one. Much to his teachers’ disdain, who didn’t agree with his ‘attitude’ or whatever. 

Whatever. 

He had been sleeping soundly, his head buried in three pillows and under the duvet, when Auguste came storming into his room, startling him awake. 

“Auguste,” he whined, “What the fuck?”

Auguste jumped onto his bed, then jumped a bit more for good measure, “Wake up, little brother!”

“What the fuck is your issue?” Laurent groaned, tossing and turning and putting a pillow over his head to block the noise, “It’s not Christmas.”

“It’s better than Christmas!” Auguste said, “You’ve got a letter from Marlas University!”

“And so?” 

“It’s so exciting! Come on, open it!”

Laurent sighed, then sat up to pick his glasses from his nightstand. Once the world stopped being messy colours. he focused on his smiling brother next to him and shoved his face away. 

“Give me the letter.”

Auguste did, eyes glistening in anticipation. He handed Laurent the letter opener, which was in the shape of a sword. Laurent slid it under the glued paper folder, feeling strangely regal, a King getting an announcement of war or something of the sorts. 

Carefully, he took out the perfectly folded letter and read outloud for Auguste, “ _‘Dear Laurent, it is with great pleasure that we inform you of your acceptance to the linguistics program to begin this Fall 2008 at Marlas University. We are very impressed with your academic history and believe you will be a great fit to our University’s campus.’_ ”

It was nothing he wasn’t already sure of, but to see Auguste’s face of pure, open happiness made him feel like he had done something incredible. He could tell he was proud, and after feeling like a disappointment and burden on certain occasions, Laurent felt a bit like he could cry. 

“Congratulations, Lo,” Auguste said, pulling him into a bear hug, “I’m so proud of you.”

“Thank you, Gus,” he said, closing his eyes, resting his weight on his brother.

“You’ve grown so fast,” his brother whispered, “Sometimes I wish you’d stop and stay just like this.”

“Does growing old scare you, sometimes?”

“All the time.”

“Why?”

“I guess that when we’re happy, I wish we could stop the clocks and stay like this forever.”

“We can stop the clocks today,” Laurent suggested, pulling away, “We can watch movies and play videogames and pretend we have stopped time forever.”

“Okay,” Auguste smiled, ruffling his already messy bed-hair, “But we’ll celebrate your admission with _tequeños and toddy._ ”

“Yes!” Laurent stood quickly and jumped on the bed as well, Auguste following. “Do you think the bed will break?” 

Auguste laughed, “I don’t know. We’ll see.”

***

Finals ended, at last. 

The school year finished. Summer started. Graduation came. 

Thanks to Auguste’s punishment and a great big load of self-control, Laurent had stayed out of trouble for the remainder of the school year, and so they had allowed him to be in the ceremony with the rest of his classmates. 

They picked July 31st, the hottest day of the goddamn year in their damn city, to hold the ceremony. And to be honest, while standing in the summer heat with an old, heavy, red wine-coloured robe, he couldn’t help but think that maybe not being in the ceremony wouldn’t have been as bad as how his sweat damp body felt. 

He was boiling on the inside of that robe. If he had been an egg, he would have hatched into an already fried chicken.

To make it even worse, his heart was beating oddly inside his chest. Damen had dared him to something ridiculously fun, and he was as excited as he was nervous of failing and landing face-first on the floor in front of the entire audience. He had been practising for a few days, but he was everything but athletic and he had more chances of breaking his skull than landing on his feet. 

If he wasn’t Laurent de Vere, he’d probably pray. But after graduation mass, he doubted any existent or non-existent God would turn the other cheek and help his ass. 

The mass had been a blast; he had accepted Aimeric’s challenge —although he insisted it wasn’t one— and had pretended to be burnt by the holy water the priest had thrown at them, then darted his eyes backwards as soon as he took the sacred host. 

It had earned him a concerned look and a scolding, but it had been worth it. Never had he enjoyed mass so much before. Plus, he’d never have to set foot in a church again, that was more than enough to keep him content during the you’re-going-to-hell-for-mocking-god talk. 

He was one of the first in line to walk onstage and receive his diploma, since they counted not the V of Vere but the D of De in his last name. And since there was no E in his class, Aimeric followed right behind him. 

“Are you really going to do it?” Aimeric whispered. 

Laurent whispered back, “What options do I have?” 

“You could just say no.”

“And lose the game?” Laurent scoffed, “Not happening.”

Aimeric sighed, exasperated, “You’re going to break your neck.” 

Laurent turned a bit to grin at him, “Worrying about me, aren’t you?” 

“No, I just don’t want you to ruin the whole thing before I get my diploma.” Aimeric frowned, “Also, blood stains are very hard to remove. If you splatter some on my clothes, it’s going to be an awful picture.” 

“First of all,” Laurent started. They called the next kid’s name, and so they moved a few steps forward. “If I break my neck, I doubt any blood would be enough to splatter you. You’ve been watching too much gore.”

“Maybe so, but this is still a crazy idea.”

“It’ll be fine,” he said, more to himself than Aimeric. 

Aimeric tapped his shoulder, “Your mom is waving.” Laurent turned towards where Aimeric’s pointed, then waved back at his mother who was holding the biggest video camera he’d seen in his life. 

“You know,” Aimeric was still smiling and waving at her, “If this goes wrong, your mom will have it on HD 1080 quality forever.” 

Laurent stepped on Aimeric’s foot, hard. Aimeric cursed, loudly enough for some parents on the first row to hear him. He gave an apologetic look and glared at him. 

Laurent said, “How clumsy, you’ll have to forgive me.”

“Bastard.”

“Asshole.”

“Dickhead.”

“Slut.”

“That’s hardly an insult,” Aimeric said, brushing his curls off his face, “Besides, virgins shouldn’t talk about what they don’t know about.”

Laurent retorted, “Who says I’m a virgin?”

He could hear the _bitch, please_ in Aimeric’s voice, “I can smell it from miles away.”

“Gross.” he made a face, “Creepy. Weirdo. Stalker.”

“That’s what a virgin would say.”

“It’s not like you’ve had sex before either,” Laurent grabbed Aimeric’s cheeks, pressing them together to make him pout, “So shush it.”

“Not for so much longer,” Aimeric said. He sounded like a duck, so Laurent pressed his face harder, “I’m becoming a whore this summer.”

Laughing, Laurent let go, “That’s such a nice way of putting it. Are you adding it to your curriculum? _‘Summer Whore-ing, 2008.’_ ”

Aimeric chuckled, “You should consider it too,” and then, “You don’t want to go to college without popping your cherry.”

“Oh God, ‘ _popping my cherry’_ ? I would have preferred _‘deflowered’_ ”

“Talking about that,” Aimeric added casually, “Have you kissed Damen yet?”

His world went blurry for a minute. He could feel his already flushed cheeks reddening dangerously. It was so _hot_ he thought he’d evaporate. 

“No,” And then, defensively, “I haven’t had the chance.”

Disbelievingly, “You have the time to play that game of yours but not for a kiss?” 

“I’m waiting for the ideal moment.”

“You’re acting like this was your first kiss ever.” After a seconds of silence, “Laurent, don’t tell me that this is your first—”

“Technically,” Laurent interrupted, annoyed, “ _You_ were my first kiss ever. Remember?” 

“How could I forget? The memory still makes me gag.” 

It had been a silly thing to do. They were kids, barely thirteen, and Laurent wanted to practice kissing a boy because in his head, he was convinced that was what he should do if he ever wanted to kiss someone for real. 

Aimeric had run away to the opposite side of the room and Laurent had planted the chastest of kisses on his lips. Then they both took turns washing their mouths and swore to never do something like that again. 

“You missed the gay experience of your lifetime,” Aimeric said then, “You know how many of our classmates are gay? Some of them are also hot, as a bonus.”

“You’re making me feel like a prude.”

“You’re sweating like a whore in a church, though.”

“Can we stop talking about sex?”

“Pruuuuuude.”

Laurent swinged at him, but Aimeric ducked. The teacher managing the line and putting golden pins on their robes eyed them both.

“De Vere, Fortaine — why am I not surprised? A little bit of seriousness, please.”

As soon as the teacher moved past them, they bursted out laughing. 

“Do you think your mom has that swing recorded?”

“Most likely.”

Laurent turned again to the audience. His mom was giving him a big thumbs up while Auguste was next to her shaking her head and laughing. On Auguste’s left was Damen, who winked and held the carousel box up high. 

He wanted to give him the finger and tell him to fuck off.

He also wanted to kiss him hard. 

When Damen and him fought, his world collapsed and nothing ever worked and his mind went berserk. But when they were good, then they were so fucking good Laurent had a hard time convincing himself they were not meant to be together.

Sure, he didn’t know of Damen’s feelings. He had tried to read him many times, and when he thought he knew what Damen was thinking or feeling regarding him, then something would change and he’d be left confused and heartbroken. Like the barista incident of a few weeks ago. 

Sometimes Laurent swore Damen felt the same way about him. Sometimes he thought he could see it in his too honest eyes, the affection, the longing. But perhaps it was all wrong and he was just seeing things that weren’t there just because he felt too strongly. 

It would be so much easier if he could go and ask him directly what he felt. But if he did so, he’d have to throw himself into a lake and drown with all the swans because there was no way he could live with the embarrassment. 

Then, he also would wonder if Auguste knew anything about it. Auguste was overprotective enough as it was, but it would be so much helpful if he could just say, _‘Hey, do you know what Damen thinks about me? Do you know if he likes me? If he finds me annoying? If he dislikes the way I speak or laugh or comb my hair?’_

But that was definitely out of the question. 

Next to him, Aimeric said, “You _so_ want him to deflower you.” 

“I swear to fucking—” Laurent was ready to start a fight, when the principal called out his name and a teacher was urging him forward towards the stairs. 

He glared at Aimeric for a second, enough to see him laugh, and then went onstage. He took off his cap and glasses and handed them to a confused teacher, but before they could ask, he pushed his arms up and bolted forward, hoping for the life of him he wouldn’t fall, and if he did, at least not on his neck.

Laurent jumped, legs pushing his lower half up and hands hitting the ground. The public gasped, but the sound of his heartbeat on his ears was too loud for him to pay attention to anything else. Next thing he knew, he had managed the handspring and he felt slightly dizzy but victorious and _alive_.

Once the world went back into focus, he put back his cap and glasses on and snatched the diploma from the principal, who stared at him like he was an alien. Laurent grinned, turned around to face the public and posed for the pictures and videos his mom and Auguste were taking. 

Distantly, he heard her voice yelling, “That’s my baby! You’re amazing, sweetheart!”

When his eyes landed, inevitably, on Damen, he found him clapping and smiling in approval. He imagined himself rushing to him, taking the box from his hands and kissing him. Damen wouldn’t expect it, his face of surprise would just turn him on further. 

_Stop thinking of it,_ he told his heart, _it’s not going to happen._

~~_Not yet._ ~~

Giving one last look to the school’s directive, he bowed his head and said, “It has _not_ been a pleasure.” 

***

The days were unbearable. 

The air conditioned had broken in the middle of a heatwave, and so they had to wait a whole week for the repairs to be done. The heat was suffocating, to the point he had hung one of his old hammocks in the backyard and had slept on it for the past week. Every inch of the house was hot and he couldn’t stay in one place without feeling sticky with sweat. He spent the time split between the shower with cold-running water over his head and in the garden, sulking and waiting for some breeze to refresh him. 

Time and time again, he’d lay on the grass and ask his mom, who sometimes worked from home in the summer, why they hadn’t built a pool when they had bought the house. 

“Your dad didn’t like them, sweetheart. He said they were too high maintenance and useless in winter.”

Laurent whined, “High maintenance? You could hire someone else to take care of it.”

“Even if it’s true,” his mom said, typing on her laptop, “It’s not nice if you say it like that. You sound spoiled.”

“I am spoiled,” he answered. “Whose fault is that?”

“Why don’t you get an ice cream from the kitchen? It’ll help cool you down.”

Laurent got up, brushing dirt and grass from his clothes, “Auguste ate the last one,” 

“Do you know where your brother is, by the way? I wanted to give him some information about a job opening in a firm.” 

Rolling his eyes, “He’s out with some girl.”

Hennike laughed, “You say it like it’s a bad thing.”

“It’s not,” Laurent thought about it for a second. “I just don’t understand it.”

“Well, I think it’s mostly a thing of respecting each other’s differences.”

“Sure.” _But no one can convince me that a girl is more attractive than Hugh Jackman._

Taking off her sunglasses, she beckoned him forward with a finger and kissed his head when he approached, “I love you and Auguste exactly the same and with all your differences. You know that, right?”

He nodded, “But don’t you think you love me a tiny bit more?”

“No, it’s all the same amount of love for both of you.”

He pouted, “I tried, at least.”

“And it was a good try,” she smiled, “Now, be a doll and go buy some ice cream for your mom.” 

***

It was thirty-six degrees celsius when Aimeric had invited him to a barbeque in his house. His parents had just bought a new grill and they had to boast about it with their neighbours and friends before they left for their summer house on the coast. 

So both Aimeric and him sat inside with the air-con on and a jar of sangria they’d stolen from the kitchen, their plates full of meat and roasted veggies in avocado sauce. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?” Aimeric asked, “My parents said they wouldn’t mind. Albert is bringing his girlfriend after all.”

It was always funny when he thought of how Aimeric’s parents had decided on only names starting with A for their four kids. Funny and yet a bit weird. Adam, Adrien, Albert and Aimeric. 

When he asked Aimeric if they were all straight, he replied he couldn’t tell. 

Laurent shook his head, then bit into his hot dog, “I don’t want to sunburn like last year. Plus, I want to take it easy before having to start packing and all.”

He wouldn’t say it outloud but he also wanted to spend time with Damen before he went to university in the fall and Damen started working in his dad’s publicity agency. 

It felt like they’d separate forever, even if it wasn’t true. And it must have felt the same way for Damen, for he was more playful and daring that when he was still finishing his masters. 

After his ceremony, Laurent had dared Damen to wear heels for his own graduation, but considering Theomedes had all it took to commit filicide, he had instead challenged him to wear high heels for an entire week, which had resulted in Damen spraining his ankle and having to spend time in bed to recover. 

Oh well. _All for the game._

“Fair enough,” Aimeric shrugged, bringing back from his thoughts, “Adrien is giving the flat keys when we come back. But dad will have it cleaned before we move in.”

“I still fear we’ll kill each other before finishing our first year,” Laurent confessed. 

Being roommates would be a challenge, but when Aimeric had proposed the idea to him, it relieved him in a way. It was easier to live with someone he knew well than with a complete stranger, even if there was a high risk of killing Aimeric, it was still lower than murdering an annoying stranger in cold-blood. 

And because Aimeric’s parents were wealthy enough, they had bought the eldest son an apartment to live in during university, and so it had become a tradition that all kids would use the flat rather than a common dorm. 

“Just keep your snake away from me and we’ll be fine.”

“Clementine,” Laurent corrected him.

Aimeric nodded, mouth full of boiled cassava and herbs. He made a motion for Laurent to wait while he swallowed, “She better not hurt Holly or I will sue you.”

“Have you seen her? She’s the tiniest, in any case I should be worried Holly would stomp on her and killer her.”

Offended, “Holly would never!”

They engaged in silly conversation, as it was usual. When their bellies were too full and the sangria was almost all gone, they lay down in opposite sides of the couch and talked; which translated to making awful comments about certain now-former classmates in the graduation ceremony and reminiscing about their early years of high school together, when they were just beginning to know each other.

They talked about their college expectations and how nervous they felt, in spite of the excitement and pride of having made it. 

Eventually, as it had lately been the case with Aimeric, it all drifted back to sex. 

“Are you going to ask Damen to pop your cherry?” Aimeric asked, playfully. 

Almost whispering, “Why are you so keen on talking about sex?” 

“Because I’m constantly horny,” Aimeric said, bluntly. He sounded a bit tipsy. “Why are you so keen on avoiding the subject? We’re almost adults now. And it’s not like we’re being improper during a meal with the Queen of England.”

Laurent shrugged. He himself also felt a bit tipsy. “I just don’t like talking about it.” 

“Lo, you’re going to make your life harder in Uni. You need to know how to handle these situations.”

Sighing, he took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, trying to make the annoyance go away. “I don’t have a problem with it, I just think it’s something to keep private.”

“It’s okay to be private about it,” Aimeric said, his words a bit slurred, “I was wondering if maybe you were scared. Or if you were asexual. Which, in both cases, it’s cool if you are.”

“I’m not asexual,” he said, simply. And he was not scared. 

At least, he thought so. 

“By the way you speak of Damen, he doesn’t seem to me like the type to pressure you to do anything you don’t want. But you still need to think about what you want, whether it’s with him or anyone else.”

“I guess with Damen, I’d…” he trailed off, not being able to find a single word to continue that sentence.

 _With Damen what?_ He’d have sex? He couldn’t even kiss him, for fuck’s sake. 

“So you’ve thought about it.” 

Laurent said nothing. His feelings were caught in his tongue. One wrong movement and he’d spill it all. Everything he felt for Damen. 

Everything he wanted to do _with_ Damen. 

“Oh, come on, Lo,” Aimeric said, throwing a cushion at him, “You need to stop being so intense. It’s a good thing! We’re seventeen. Relax a little.” 

Laurent smiled. It was a sad smile, a fearful smile. “But I’ll be rejected.”

“So what? If it won’t be Damen, it’ll be with someone hotter than him. I can see it in your future.”

“You see the future now?” Laurent asked, staring at the ceiling. Without his glasses, the world seemed less threatening. It helped him stop thinking. “Baker, business major _and_ clairvoyant.”

Laughing, “I’m a man of many skills!” and then, “And you’re hot,” Aimeric said. A statement. “I don’t need to be clairvoyant to know that. Anyone would want to tap that ass. Or well, have their ass tapped by you.”

Laughter was coming out of him faster than tears ever did, “What?”

“Ugh, I drank too much,” Aimeric chuckled, “But you get the point.”

Laurent yawned, “The point is that we should take a nap now,” 

“Finally a good idea.”

Aimeric fell asleep much quicker than he did, in spite of the tiredness that crept through his temple. His eyelids felt so heavy, keeping awake gave him a headache. 

The point was that Aimeric was right, and he needed to act on his feelings before they left for college. Whether he was rejected or not, he oughted it to himself to try. 

_Try, try, try_

As he started to drift away, he could only hope he wouldn’t lose Damen for it. 

_Try to hold on to this heart a little bit longer_

***

A few days later, Damen texted him. 

_D: Are you awake?_

It was a little past ten, and Laurent was, in fact, very much awake watching a horror movie out of boredom in his bedroom. Auguste was out with that girl again, and his mom was working in her studio, so it was a quiet night. 

His heart, however, fell to his stomach and started to pulse through his entire body. Anticipation? Indigestion? Fear? Excitement? 

He didn’t know, but he felt bile raising a bit at the thought of _Damen_ and the conversation he’d had with Aimeric. It made no sense at all, and yet he couldn’t help it. 

_L: I am._

Laurent wrapped himself in his duvet, as he used to do as a kid, and watched the three dots on the screen indicating that Damen was typing. 

After a few seconds, Damen replied.

_D: Let’s go on an adventure :)_

Laurent giggled, then stopped, feeling a bit embarrassed and self-conscious. He couldn’t help but keep on smiling, though, and he bit his lower lip as he typed a response. 

_L: right now?_

_D: Right now. Put on your shoes and sneak out the back, I’ll wait for you in the car._

And so Laurent did. He stopped the DVD and changed into a pair of jeans and white-navy striped t-shirt. He messed up his hair a little, in front of the mirror, and took his shoes with a hand, still with his heart on his throat. 

“Wish me luck, Tiny,” he whispered to Clementine, before disappearing through the hall as quietly as he could. 

He walked barefoot, hoping that he’d be quiet enough for his mom not to hear him go downstairs and through the kitchen door. But either his mother could read his mind or had an extremely good ear. 

“Laurie? Baby, is that you?”

He swore under his breath and approached his mom's studio. When he pushed open the door, she was sitting at her desk, clearly waiting for him to enter.

“Hey mom.”

“Are you going out?” she asked.

“I’m going over to Damen’s,” he said, which was not entirely a lie, “We’re going to watch a horror movie.”

“Ah,” she smiled, “Have fun, sweetheart.”

“How could you hear me?” he asked, out of curiosity, “I tried to be quiet, because you were working.”

“I could feel your presence down the hall,” she said, simply, then winked, “Call it a mom thing.” 

Scary. Moms were scary beings. 

After leaving his mom, he went downstairs as quickly as he could, and slipped on his shoes before going outside. 

Damen was waiting for him, leaning on the side of his car. He smiled, _like the sun_ , upon seeing him. Laurent felt himself smiling too, as if they were sharing an inside joke that made the rest of the world unimportant and uninteresting. 

“Where are we going?” he asked, once they were in the car.

“I told you,” Damen grinned, “It’s an adventure.”

“Why this late, though?”

“Because everything’s way more interesting at night.”

“That’s a bit lame.”

“Think about it,” Damen said, as they drove out of their neighbourhood, “At night, things are quieter, the walls of your mind tend to open, and all those things you missed out during the day, all the soft and good things that you never even thought about, suddenly have your attention.” 

Laurent considered this for a moment. This Damen, who asked him to sneak out at ten in the evening and go on an adventure vs the daylight Damen who insisted on acting like Laurent was nothing but a silly kid. This Damen, who looked relaxed even with the shadows of the streetlights dancing on his face. Who talked more, who didn’t know the difference between being seventeen or twenty-three. 

“It all looks different at night,” Laurent said, licking his lip, “Time seems to stop.”

Damen hummed in agreement, “Summer nights are the best nights; they are endless. One night seems enough to live forever.”

 _If only I could stop the clocks,_ Laurent thought. 

***

“You’ve brought me to a public pool?” 

Damen seemed a bit shy, but said, defensively, “Do you yield then?”

The carousel box was in his hands. Damen had said, _“Dare you to break in and take a swim.”_ Sure, pools were fun. Breaking in was even better. But, a public pool? 

“You could have at least taken me to your dad’s country club.”

“That would have been less fun.”

“Why?”

“Because we wouldn’t be in troubles if they caught us.” Damen shrugged, already climbing the wired fence. “The security guy would have taken a look at my VIP pass and let us go.”

“Whereas now, we could be detained by the police.”

Damen looked down at him, “It’s the game you like, isn’t it?”

Rolling his eyes, Laurent waited for Damen to successfully jump and land on the other side, before throwing the box at him. Damen caught it, not even blinking.

“You’re infuriating,” Laurent whispered, climbing the fence himself, “If we go to jail, Auguste will kill you.”

“We’re not going to jail because security here is terrible,” Damen argued, “Plus, your mom’s a lawyer. We’re covered.”

Once he’d jumped the fence —with Damen steadying his landing— he grabbed the box and leaned up to flick Damen’s forehead, “Idiot.”

They were breaking each and every of society’s implicit and explicit rules, and truth was neither seemed to care. All Damen could think of was Laurent and their game. 

All Laurent could think of was Damen. And the smell of his cologne that lingered in the air after he had passed. The way he held his hand and put a finger on his lips to shush him whenever he heard something weird. 

Damen, who always was, to Laurent, the embodiment of summer, of the impossible, of the open skies full of stars and promises. 

_Tonight,_ Laurent thought, _I will kiss him._

Quietly, they made their way inside. Damen was right, the security was terrible. Supposedly there should have been someone at the entrance making sure no one entered, but it seemed they had decided to finish their shift early and left. Lights were off and no one was around, which made it easy to pick up the locks that lead to the pool. 

“A trick I learnt from Aimeric,” Laurent said at Damen’s surprised face. 

“Impressive.”

“Adequate.”

There was an echo as they entered. Laurent hadn’t been in a covered pool since he’d learnt to swim — classes which he abhorred— but this one, in spite of being public, seemed well kept and smelled so much like chlorine he could tell it had been recently cleaned. 

Damen set up as if they were camping; with towels, mini speakers, a backpack full of snacks and a six pack of his favourite beer. He even let Laurent choose the music; a mix of classic 80s English rock they both enjoyed.

“Well,” Damen said, eyeing the pool, “Care for a swim?” 

Laurent took a sip of his beer, “You go first.”

“It’s not my dare.”

Laurent glared at him. Damen lifted up an eyebrow, and they stared at each other for a few seconds before he caved him, “Fine.”

Before he could even look away, Damen was undressing before him. Shoes and socks were off, then his white shirt. Lastly, he slid off his jeans with ease and it was too much for Laurent to handle. 

He didn’t want to look away, but he had to before Damen caught him. All the blood rushed to his face and suddenly he considered throwing himself into the pool fully dressed just to cool off. 

Damen ran and jumped into the pool with a splash and a childish scream, “Fuck, it’s _cold_!”

Leaving the box on the floor, Laurent undressed. He tried to push his self-conscious thoughts away, but having Damen almost entirely naked close by didn’t help in the slightest. He did it quickly, almost clumsily, and left his glasses by the edge before jumping into the pool. 

His body welcomed the coolness, his hot face no longer burning, and his troubled mind embraced the silence underneath the water. Opening his eyes, he couldn’t really _see_ a thing, but he had always liked the way lights seemed to play with the waves, making it seem like it was another world entirely. 

A quiet, blurry world. The inside of a mirror that led somewhere else. 

_When I go out, it’ll be different. I’ll be braver. The clocks will stop, and we’ll have forever._

Pulling his head out, he brushed his hair out of his face and rubbed his eyes, then grabbed his glasses and put them on. Damen was only inches away.

The air caught in his throat, his lips were trembling. “It _is_ fucking cold.” _What’s wrong with me?_

 _I’ll be braver,_ he repeated in his head. A mantra going on and on and on. 

Damen laughed, “Still better than the summer heat, isn’t it?”

Laurent smiled, splashing water on Damen’s face, “But of course.”

“If you swim a bit, you’ll warm up.” 

“Pass.”

“You’re so lazy,” Damen said, eyes rolling. 

Laurent stuck his tongue out at him, “Bet you can’t do more than ten laps.”

“Is it a dare?”

“Yes.”

 _Like the sun_ , “Game.”

***

The night was endless. 

After successfully doing _eleven_ laps, Damen had collapsed outside of the pool and Laurent had sat with him. They drank beer and ate chips and marshmallows and talked.

The night was endless. It was summer and he was a bit tipsy already. Damen’s head was on his thigh, and when he talked he gestured up to the ceiling with his hands. 

It made Laurent smile as he watched. 

“So,” Damen said, droplets of his still wet hair, running down his face, “Ready for college?”

Laurent shrugged, “Ready for working for your dad?”

Grimacing, Damen ignored his question, “Auguste told me you got into linguistics. Congratulations.”

Had he not told Damen himself? He couldn’t remember. He’d talked about college a million times over and with different people, but his mind was all over the place when they were alone. “Sorry. I forgot to tell you.”

“It’s alright,” Damen smiled, “Make the most out of your college experience. Best years of your life.”

Laurent laughed, “You _just_ finished your masters and you’re already talking like an old dad with a mid-life crisis.”

“I’ve been spending too much time with Kastor.”

That only made Laurent laugh harder. 

“You’re gonna miss me when I leave,” Laurent said, once his laughter had calm down, “What will you do without the dares to keep you entertained?”

“Ah,” Damen closed his eyes, “Finally some peace and quiet over here.”

“Come on, you love the game.”

~~_And me. You love me._ ~~

“I do love the game,” Damen agreed, “Of course I will miss you. But you’re only moving closer to campus, not another city.”

“Yeah, but I won’t have that much time to spend with you anymore.”

“I’ll be super lonely. I won’t be able to cope without you daring me to eat gross food and go down the stairs jumping on one foot.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll drive to your new office and deliver the box in person.” 

Laughing, Damen pointed out, “You don’t have a car.”

“Not yet, but I think Auguste wants to give me one.”

“Your birthday is soon after all. Eighteen is a big deal.”

“I can drink myself dumb and get a licence. Being eighteen sounds fascinating.”

“And,” Damen added, “You can vote.”

“Again, fascinating.”

Opening his eyes, Damen’s features softened up as his gaze landed on him. It made his heart want to impale itself onto a cross. “It’s a nice age, you’ll see.”

Shyly, he asked, “What did you do at eighteen?”

Damen seemed to think for a moment, “I started uni, got a part time job to kill time during the summer, I had a girlfriend for a while, went to many, many parties and got really drunk during my first term. That’s all I remember.” 

“It sounds like a coming-of-age movie.”

“In a way, it was. I guess I still felt like I was a teenager in high school.”

“When did you ever stop?”

“You’re right.”

“Sometimes I forget you’re older than me.” 

“Me too.” 

_Now._

_Do it now, or you’ll never know._

_Do it now, before—_

“It’s getting late.” Damen mentioned, quietly, glancing at his phone, “Should we swim a bit more before we go?”

Laurent nodded, Damen rolled the carousel box back towards him, “Jump off the highest trampoline.”

Smirking, Laurent took the box and said, “Game,” before standing up, Damen’s head hitting the floor. Laughing a bit as Damen complained and rubbed the sore spot. 

It wasn’t too high. He did fear landing on his belly and the pain and humiliation, but he dived in as gracefully as he could, cold water engulfing him and his terror. 

How did he even kiss someone? Aimeric didn’t count. 

He’d never done this before and now it was too late to think of the logistics of the whole thing. How was it even going to work? Maybe he’ll push too hard and hit Damen’s teeth — the thought frightened him.

Maybe he shouldn’t do this. 

Maybe he should let this go. Let their summer night go and let the impossible, the dream, the game and Damen go with it. 

Forward the clocks. Make time go faster. 

It took him a bit longer than it should have to go up. And when he did, Damen was already beside him. He couldn’t see very well, but moved towards him as he could. He was trembling all over. “Damen.”

“Are you okay?” Grabbing his shoulders, “You took too long and I got worried.”

Laurent coughed, “I’m fine. I, uh, miscalculated.”

“Right.”

Damen moved, placing Laurent’s glasses on his face. The world came back into focus too fast it made him want to recoil. Damen’s eyes were examining him over, trying to find the cause for a distress that manifested as illness and not fear. 

Maybe this had been a bad idea. 

“Lo,” Damen asked, a bit softer, “Alright?”

Laurent nodded, he smiled, “That was fun.”

“Was it now?” 

“Very much so.”

“I’m glad,” Damen seemed to relax a little, “I really wanted to do this with you, tonight. It’s true what I said earlier.” Then, a bit timidly, “I’ll miss you.”

Laurent whispered, “I too will miss you,” He wanted to hold his own heart between his hands, spare it the consequences of what would happen. He swallowed, “Damen,” he forced out, “I wanted to tell you something.”

_Then you kiss him._

_Kiss Damen,_ and finish this game. 

Damen waited for him to go on, but he couldn’t. Looking up, Laurent met his eyes. He was holding Laurent tenderly and still strong enough to steady him. 

_Don’t hate me. Please don’t hate me._

_“_ What is it?”

And then, the song started playing. The sad song, the one about being in love. The sound from the speakers echoed through the place and landed on him as a sign from the universe. 

_For what is to come._

_For you and me, and a summer just like this._

They were not playing the game. They were standing on the pool ever so closely. Damen was brushing wet hair off his face and Laurent felt each soft touch resonate within him. 

_You know I'm such a fool for you_

_You've got me wrapped around your finger_

It was so true. It was exactly how it felt to be in love. As if the other person always held you in a finger. There was no breathing or existing that wasn’t around them because the pain otherwise would be unbearable. 

Being in love was being the biggest fool of them all. But he would rather have this than have nothing. Laurent would rather have this one summer night of impossibilities than one day without Damen in his life.

 _So please,_ Laurent pleaded, not sure of who to, _linger._

_To the night, please linger._

_To this moment, please linger._

_To you, please linger._

Leaning closer, Laurent put his shaking arms around Damen’s neck and pressed his lips on his. It was a shy and chaste kiss but full of intention. Full of meaning, and music, and memories, and longing and whispers from this faint heart of his that couldn’t deal with it anymore. 

_Don’t hate me, but I love you. I’ve loved you for a while now._

_Don’t hate me. I love you, and maybe you don’t love me. But let me have this for one minute and I’ll be…_

_Gone._

He felt surprise in Damen, but he never let him go. And when Laurent pulled away, Damen’s eyes weren’t full of hatred or disgust, but tenderness. 

Laurent wanted to kiss him again.

Grabbing his face sweetly, Damen placed a kiss on his forehead. He said, not a hint of distaste in his voice, “It’s late. We should go.”

His heart fluttered then. Had he been accepted? Was it….reciprocated? _His love._

Damen took his hand and was leading him out of the pool when they heard noise, and a voice approaching. Fast, they gathered their things and tried to sneak out before anyone could actually find them. 

They dried themselves the best they could and got dressed upon reaching the car. They were quiet on the drive back home, but the clock marked almost two in the morning as they reached the highway. 

Laurent was tired, and yet he didn't know how to feel. Nervous or disappointed, or on the contrary, nervous and overjoyed. They stopped for pancakes at a 24/7 diner, after Laurent mentioned he was hungry, and they fell back into easy conversation and jokes that made him breathe a bit easier. 

But whenever there was silence, Laurent only wanted to ask about the kiss. Whether he could….do it again, perhaps. Only he felt as though his brain had eloped and left him stranded with a handful of fried cells. 

And yet, Damen smiled at him. He smiled and joked and told him to sleep if he was tired. He bought him pancakes with maple syrup and had stolen several bites after claiming he wasn’t hungry himself. 

By the time they got home, he was dozing off. Damen poked his cheek to wake him up, and opened the door for him too. 

“Thank you for everything,” Laurent said. They were in the small gap between both of their houses. “I had a great time.”

“Me too,” Damen said, fingers combing through his own hair, “And you see, we didn’t go to jail.” He winked. 

Laurent grinned, twirling the carousel box between his hands, “I’ll see you…?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow.”

***

That night, while Laurent curled up in bed and dreamt of sweet lips tasting of chlorine and summer, he still could listen to the words of that song that became their song, and that followed them through the years as a beacon of what they truly were and truly felt and everything they never did and never said. 

He saw Damen, surprised as Laurent kissed him, only that this time, he kissed him back. 

_Do you have to let it linger?_

_Do you have to, do you have to, do have to let it linger?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!
> 
> Yes, I know. I KNOW what just happened and what they just did, but there's nothing I can say without giving anything away so I just hope you enjoyed this one as much as I did! 
> 
> *** A little side note: tequeños and toddy is kind of a Venezuelan snack; it consists of white cheese-filled pastry dough fingers (tequeños) and malted chocolate milk (toddy). I'm half Venezuelan and so demon-friend and I decided to slip some of our culture in this little world, too. 
> 
> Anygay, as always thanks to Ellen and my demon-friend because honestly this chapter is one of my favourites but it also had to be crafted very carefully so I wouldn't fuck it up (and the rest of the plot, oopsie) and it couldn't have been done without them both. 
> 
> "Try, Try, Try" & "Try to hold on / To this heart / A little bit longer" title and lyrics taken from [Try, Try, Try](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3_0d01XbXg0) by The Smashing Pumpkins.
> 
> "You know I'm such a fool for you / You've got me wrapped around your finger." & "Do you have to let it linger? / Do you have to, do you have to, do have to let it linger?" lyrics taken from [Linger](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G6Kspj3OO0s) by The Cranberries. (Leave it to me, of course, to write an entire story surrounding my favourite song in the entire world and make it angsty.)
> 
> Feedback and comments fully appreciated! You know where to find me: I'm [princesgambit](https://twitter.com/princesgambit) on twitter (where I spend most of my time) and [dearanemone](https://princesgambit.co.vu/) on tumblr.
> 
> Check out Linger's playlist on Spotify [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3xzKQO5iKGl5LmoLbJUxUq?si=SD0-xQXHQy6TuYFZ1NrkUg). 
> 
> P.S. Whoever sent me that ask on tumblr asking me not to kill Auguste: you know I wouldn't write the same thing twice, babe. 
> 
> Unless?
> 
> See you next weekend!


	6. Act I: Chapter 6

_I know how this story ends._

_I’ve always wanted to have the upper hand and for a while that satisfied me. After trailing after you like a child, all I wanted was to be one step ahead. I wanted to guide you through the world that I saw open when we were together._

~~_You were important. You were necessary._ ~~

~~_I wasn’t._ ~~

_But it wasn’t enough. I wanted to have power over you like you had with me, even unknowingly. I wanted to hold your heart between both my hands and eat it raw while you watched. In a way, I think I did._

_I dried my tears with your blood on my fingers. Even then, my feelings lingered. The stains remained. I left, I ran, I left you behind._

_You stayed. Empty as a vessel of the you I used to dream about._

_You didn’t search for me. You never shed one tear._

~~_Silly me._ ~~

_Was this always your idea? Was this the way we had to crash and fall? Do we ever rise? Or do we make a nest of our ashes?_

_I know how this story ends. And you won’t like it._

~~_I don’t want to be here._ ~~

_And if I told you what happens next, would you too eat my heart?_

***

Laurent woke up feeling like he had fallen into The Twilight Zone. A brighter, kinder version but still just as inexplicably strange. 

He had to read several times the text messages from the night before to make sure the whole thing had happened and it wasn’t just a very vivid dream. When he understood that it wasn’t an invention of his own imagination, he lay back down on the bed and pressed a pillow to his face, hitting it several times to waste his sudden accumulated energy. 

He’d kissed Damen. 

He felt himself smiling wide and he touched his own lips as if they held the most precious secret of the universe. 

He’d kissed him and Damen had been so gentle. Sweet, in a way that was new.

“Oh, Tiny,” he sighed, a bit dramatically, as he spoke across the room to Clementine. He had to feed her soon. “You won’t believe what happened.”

Getting up, he made his way to the terrarium and grabbed her. She tongue-flicked a few times, wrapped herself around his forearm and wrist as she did when she was content, “Are you in a good mood too?” he giggled, “I must say, whatever spell you casted upon Damen worked wonders.” 

What was Damen thinking? He wondered. 

What was he doing? Was he thinking of him as fiercely as Laurent was? 

The thought made him blush, heads to toe. His pulse spiked up, Clementine tightening her grip on him slightly. He didn’t reprimand her, instead just let the pressure ground him. Clementine was his anchor, he counted on her to keep his heads off the clouds. Whenever she did that, he thought he could hear her inside his mind.

_“Silly loverboy.”_

He wanted Damen to think of him, to want him, to search for him. Was it such a silly thing? 

_You’re pathetically in love,_ his brain said, _It’s disgusting._

But what happened now? He’d thought perhaps it would all go away once he had his so desired kiss, but instead all of his emotions were enhanced, as if every single heartbeat of his was multiplied by ten. 

There was an urge that was almost a craving to kiss Damen again and again and again until he had his mouth memorized. Until he couldn’t remember what it was to want and not have. Laurent wanted to see him but then again he felt a little bit ill just by imagining it. It made his stomach hurt in a way that was not entirely unpleasant but anxious enough to make him light-headed. 

_I need you so much closer._

He was pathetically in love. 

Still, what happened now? He was going to college and Damen would start working full time. It couldn’t—wouldn’t work. And what would Auguste say? Would he feel bad that Laurent was to date his best friend from childhood? 

No, Auguste wasn’t like that. He didn’t possess any malice or negative emotions like jealousy or envy or hatred. Those Laurent had claimed all for his own way before being born. 

Auguste was good and honest and all the things he was not. He could trust him to understand his heart. If anything, he might be the only one who could fully understand. He was the only one who could read his mind and who could anticipate his actions. Auguste saw through Laurent like clear glass. 

Sometimes it made Laurent crazy, but most of the time he was just glad. He couldn’t understand himself more time than not, so it was a good thing to confide in his older brother to guide him through the messes he often created. 

Maybe he should tell Auguste. 

Auguste would know what to do. He’d know what to say. How to behave, how to say “please want me” without sounding so desperate. 

Was daydreaming so bad? He carried Clementine to the bed and laid down, staring at the ceiling while she crawled over his chest. The room around him disappeared, instead it was all replaced by the cinematic projections of his mind. Home-films that had never happened but that he hoped could turn true if he wished them hard enough. Living through dreams, dreaming through life. He saw himself holding hands with Damen. He saw himself going on dates, kissing him, loving him endlessly. 

Holding him dearly within the confinements of his mind, as if he could bottle the essence of Damen’s existence and build his own life around it. 

_Show me_ , he prayed to his lost heart, _how it could be._

_Show me what we could have._

If he was infatuated, Laurent didn’t see it. If he was asking for too much, he wouldn’t acknowledge it. 

_Go ahead_ , he told his yearning heart, _go ahead, go ahead, go ahead, fall head first into this dream._

If Laurent could write pages on end about how strongly he ever loved Damen, he did not see it yet. That would come years after and out of pain. 

But right now, Laurent was seventeen and felt as though he was holding the world on his fingertips, when in reality, he had only the sparks of a short-lived shooting star; a rare and beautiful thing that died before it was due, and whose remnants lingered in the atmosphere of one’s life. 

He was seventeen and he wanted...a story. And who has not ever wanted a story? A fantastic tale that came not from desires or wishes but from mundane magic. Love, shooting stars and dreams. And Damen. 

Laurent covered his face with his hands—Clementine now again curled around his arm— trying to wake himself up from his reverie. 

_A story,_ he thought. _Our story._

But stories often do not go as we wish them, and that was something he’d also learn later. 

***

Laurent called Aimeric, because if he didn’t tell anyone what had happened, he’d probably choke on his own excitement. So he went online on his laptop and buzzed on the messenger chat until he replied. 

_A: what the fuck, Laurent_

_L: videocall?_

Aimeric called him, then, and once they could see each other, he said, “This better be good. It’s my last day here and I was about to meet with a hot guy at the beach.”

Rolling his eyes, “Good to see you too, Mer.”

“Come on, Lo, I have a hottie waiting,” Aimeric bit his lower lip, tapped his finger impatiently, “What is it?”

“I kissed Damen,” Laurent blurted out, “Last night. He took me to a pool,” he paused, a bit awkwardly, “For a dare. But I kissed him.”

“Wait, was the kiss part of the dare?”

“No, I—No, I just did it impulsively.” 

“You do everything impulsively.”

“Fuck off.” 

Aimeric stared at him for a few seconds, then smiled so big Laurent thought his face would fall off, “Well good for you, slut! When are you fucking him then?”

Laurent gave him the finger, but felt his cheeks turn bright red. Aimeric laughed. “I’m taking it one step at a time,” Laurent said. Then, “Have you...popped your cherry yet?”

“If you can’t say it, then you shouldn’t be doing it,” Aimeric sing sang, annoyingly, before replying, all full of himself, “Yes, I have.”

Cautiously, Laurent asked, “How was it?”

Aimeric seemed to think of it for a minute, “Listen, when I tell you you need to get your dick sucked, it’s because I seriously think it’s life changing.” 

“I regret asking.”

“How do you feel? About the kiss, I mean.”

Laurent hugged himself as a reflex. He struggled to find the words to describe the emotional rollercoaster he had experienced since the night before. How could he imply that he’d deny his father and refuse his own name if it meant Damen would love him back but without saying those words exactly? 

How could he voice out the fears of a relationship that wasn’t yet begun but that for the first time in ages had some hope of becoming a reality? 

God, he was dying to taste Damen’s lips again. But he’d never admit that to anyone other than his own brain, and still that was enough to feel a bit pitiful. 

“I still can’t believe it happened,” he said.

“Next time,” Aimeric made a vulgar gesture, “You suck him off for good measure.”

“You’re terrible and I’m ashamed of being acquaintanced with you.”

“Oh come on, I’m giving you tips to get your relationship moving!”

“I just,” Laurent paused, trying to untangle his thoughts, “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now. We’re meeting today, but…” he trailed off. 

But. What if he had misunderstood it all? 

What if, when he saw Damen, he forgot how to speak? 

“Hey,” Aimeric called, “Lo, I know I joke around a lot but just take your time.” He smiled, then added, “And wear the white, tight t-shirt you have in your closet.”

Laurent scoffed, crossing his arms, “That’s from when I was twelve!”

“It shows off your body! And marks your nipples.”

Laurent’s phone buzzed, cutting off his next death threat to Aimeric. It was Damen.

_D: Hey, I’m outside. Wanna talk for a bit?_

His heart pounded. He was nowhere near ready; still in pyjamas, his hair a mess. He hadn’t even washed his face yet. 

“Gotta go,” Laurent said, still looking at his phone, “Damen’s outside.”

“Tell me how it goes after.”

Laurent nodded, “Good luck with your date.”

“Praise our Lord above, can’t wait to suck some di—”

Before Aimeric could complete his sentence, Laurent shut the laptop and stared at the nothingness for a minute. 

Damen was outside and he couldn’t move. He felt himself tremble slightly, the same as he did last night. Slowly, he typed a response.

_L: Sure. I’ll be down in a minute._

Then he sprinted off, to wash his face and brush his teeth and try to stop himself from grinning like an idiot. 

***

Laurent counted exactly five minutes since he answered. He had managed to change into some more presentable clothes and brush his teeth like an animal. But at last, he had made it to the door. 

Outside, sitting on the swing seat from his porch, was Damen. He smiled upon seeing him and Laurent’s heart grew three sizes. 

“Hello stranger.”

“Hi,” Laurent smiled, shyly, “Sorry I kept you waiting. Do you want something to drink?”

Damen shook his head, “Come here, let’s swing.” 

Laurent sat next to him on the swing seat. It was not big enough for them to sit without their legs touching and so, Laurent considered holding Damen’s hand for a minute, but he wasn’t brave enough. He’d probably melt into a puddle if he tried. 

“What have you been doing all day?” 

Laurent shrugged, “Nothing.” _Daydreaming._

“Lazing around like a proper teenager.”

“What did you do today?”

Damen smiled, then shrugged too, “Nothing.”

“What a bum.”

“Back at you, lazybones.”

Laurent chuckled, “That’s a ridiculous word.”

“Suits you well,” Damen tickled him softly, “In my opinion.”

“Stop, don’t do that,” Laurent hit his hand away, “I don’t like tickles.”

“Yes, Your Highness,” Damen took his hand back. “Before you came down, I was thinking of how much I always envied you for having this swing seat.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I remember seeing you and Auguste sitting here together trying to swing as high as you could with this thing. My dad never wanted me to have one.”

“Your dad is the most boring person on earth.”

“I agree.”

“I could dare you into spending a whole day sitting in the swing to make up for all those years of envy.”

Damen smiled, but it looked like a sad smile. He didn’t laugh like Laurent had expected him to, or challenged him back. Instead, he grabbed both his hands into his, caressing his knuckles softly. 

The first thing he noticed was how warm Damen’s hands were. Then, that they were considerably bigger than him, but still quite slender. Not scrawny or plump, but soft. 

“I wanted to talk to you about yesterday,” Damen said.

“Yes?”

The air was tense for a minute, only he didn’t know why. He had the same strange feeling as when he looked up at the sky only to realize rain was coming. Suddenly, he didn’t want to have this conversation. 

Suddenly, he forgot how to speak. 

“You know I love to hang out with you,” Damen looked at him, his gaze was so strong Laurent almost looked away, “I love our game. I love when we spend time together.” 

Nodding, his voice sounded strained, “I do too.”

“But we can’t do that again,” Damen said, finally. It was an awful thing to say. And the entire meaning seemed to escape him, until Damen clarified, probably perceiving his confusion, “The kiss.”

_The kiss_ , he said, like it was….nothing but a fumbling attention. 

Frowning, he asked, “Why not? I don’t—I don’t understand.”

_No._

_No._

_No._

“Laurent,” Damen’s voice was so gentle, for a minute he almost didn’t notice his heart climbing up his throat. His whole world went black, then white, then just completely blank. “You’re so young.”

_No._

_No._

_No._

Laurent’s hands were now trembling. He pulled them back from Damen’s as if that touch alone could end his life. It had gone from warm to being deadly cold and it sent icy chills all through his body. He said, defensively, “I’m going to college in September.” 

Damen’s eyes were kind but yet so stern, a contradiction within someone impossible and ~~always~~ unreachable, “And I already finished college.”

“You’re making a big deal out of this,” Laurent insisted. He wanted Damen to see what he saw. How it could be. 

How good they were together. 

Could he not feel it? That whenever it was the two of them, the world was at their feet. The clocks stopped, the nights were endless. 

They danced on rooftops and walked on train tracks and jumped from dangerous heights all to play a game of impossibilities.

So why was this any different? 

Why was this simply out of the question?

If he had dared Damen, then would have he been game?

Was this ever just a game to him? 

An entertainment. A way to indulge him. 

A lie. 

Suddenly, Laurent just wanted to cry. 

“I’m not,” Damen reached over to brush the fringe away from his eyes, “You need to go out with someone your own age.”

But he wouldn't cry. Not in front of this man who pitied him, who treated him like a child. Who, in the end, didn’t see him as an equal or a friend or a partner. 

Just a kid to play with. Someone’s baby brother. 

And the stupid game they played. 

His eyes filled with tears. He said, “I don’t trust anyone the way I trust you.”

“Then trust me on this,” he said, and Laurent wondered if he also heard his heart breaking into dust. “It’s what's better for both of us.”

_No._ “How can you know?” Then, voice rising a bit, “You don’t know anything!” 

_You don’t know how I feel._

~~_Please._ ~~

Damen continued, “I’m sorry I led you on. It wasn’t my intention.” 

“Is it because I’m not a girl?”

Surprised,“No.” And, “No, I—I’m bisexual. I thought you knew that.”

“Then _why_?” 

_Why won’t you love me back?_

Damen regarded him for a moment. Whatever answer Laurent was looking for in Damen’s eyes wasn’t the one he wanted. He wanted to believe there was something else behind Damen’s rejection. He wanted an elaborate plan to deceive him and not just plain heartbreak. 

He wanted war and a murder plot and _a story_ . Anything but _this_. 

Anything but those words. 

Damen’s voice was quiet, but the words resonated in him like an echo, loud enough so that he’d remember them forever. “Because I don’t feel that way about you. I’m sorry.”

Suddenly, Laurent wished he’d never done something so foolish. If he could turn back those damn clocks, he’d think twice before crossing that bridge. If he could find a blue butterfly and ask it to take him back once more to make it right, he’d tell Damen to keep his carousel box, after all. 

And erase all the memories from that other life where everything was different and where everything went wrong and where he had been the biggest fool of them all to believe in things as love. 

Love never helped anyone. It just made things harder and people weaker. It made him want to cry and break things and never see Damen again. 

It made him play that game. 

None of this would have happened, and maybe that other Laurent would be happy. 

“You don’t mean that,” Laurent swallowed against the knot, heavy as a stone, blocking his throat. If he breathed hard enough through his nose, maybe he’d make himself light-headed and faint. “You cannot possibly mean that.”

He wasn’t that lucky.

Damen tried once more, “Laurent.”

_Get me out of here. Get me out of here. Get me out of here. Get me out of here._

_Get me out of here. Get me out of here. Get me out of here. Get me out of here._

_Get me out of here._

“Leave.” And then, a bit quieter, “Get the fuck out.”

“Please. I don’t want to leave you like this.”

_Too late._ He was broken. 

“I don’t care,” he replied, “I want you gone, now.”

He didn’t want to hear the rest. The implicit concerns about friendship. About how they could still hang out and pretend nothing had ever happened. Laurent refused to acknowledge the bullshit. 

He’d had enough for now, maybe for a lifetime. He didn’t need be told twice. 

Damen left. Silently, he’d gotten up the swing, and walked away, back to his own house. Alone, Laurent pushed the swing back and then lifted his feet for it to go forward faster. He impulsed it as much as he could, closing his eyes and letting the tears spill, one by one. 

_I dare you,_ he told himself, _to go back and fix it._

_To un-tell this cruel story._

_Erase that night and all the ones before. Erase the games. Erase the smiles._

_Erase him from our life._

The thing about memories was that they were triggered by emotion. Our purest, deepest feelings. And those, no matter the time that goes by, linger. 

One day, Laurent would learn that the tears stopped and the bruises healed, but love and regret and hatred and guilt and shame lingered. They stayed within him, shaped him into who he was, whether good or bad. And there was no blue butterfly to grant him another chance. 

There was no time machine to fix the past and no script for the future. But ultimately, there was acceptance. 

And he’d reach for the carousel box once more, and let himself remember. 

***

He’d ended up making himself dizzy enough to throw up.

But he had not eaten anything yet, and so it had been all much ado about nothing. After that, he’d taken a long warm shower and gotten back in bed, making sure to close all the curtains and turn on the air-con. He wrapped himself into his blankets and stayed there.

Looking back as an adult, Laurent would know this wasn’t the day he’d cried most or the hardest in the years to come, but at the time he was sure he’d have to have his lacrimal gland replaced. 

He cried until he almost made himself sick again. His throat constantly ached, the knot he kept trying to push down pulsing like a second heart. His head throbbed, his face felt overall sore and his nose just kept running and running. Laurent didn’t know how to stop everything from happening, but he also didn’t care. 

He wanted to sleep for a while but sleep never came and he didn’t know where his mom kept the sleeping pills or melatonin or whatever the fuck that was. And so the hours passed and he did not move an inch. 

In his arms he had the carousel box, held tightly to his chest. He wanted to throw it away. Burn it, maybe. 

Drown it. 

On the nightstand, his phone continued to buzz with messages from Aimeric and some from Auguste. He read them all, but couldn’t bring himself to reply. He felt tired and miserable and furious, but with no energy for being any more destructive than he already was with himself. 

The hours passed in his lament. The light of dusk seeped through the curtains and he wondered whether the sky was orange or pink or a mix of the two. 

Somehow, Laurent felt like he had suffered the greatest loss known to anyone who’s ever loved, but the truth was he hadn't yet experienced love but simple infatuation. How could he have been so stupid and blind and delusional to see all those things that meant everything to him and nothing to Damen? 

A castle of dreams. A castle of sand. Gone with a wave of the rising tide.

_It is what it is_ , said the voice in his head, _You can’t make anyone love you._

Would he be able to see Damen’s face ever again? He supposed he’d have to, at some point. Otherwise he’d be a resentful coward and he wasn’t one to fall so low. It was enough with the scene he’d pulled off earlier. 

Awful. He needed to learn to conceal better his emotions. He was no longer a child and it was inexcusable to act so immaturely. No matter if he felt as though he had been chopped in half with a razor blade. 

_Toughen up, Laurent._

~~_You’re so young._ ~~

There was a knock on the door, followed by a quiet voice, “Lo?”

It was Auguste. 

“What is it?” he asked, “Why are you here all alone in the dark?”

Laurent closed his eyes and buried his face in the pillow. He wanted to hug Auguste so badly he had to dig his nails into his arms to refrain himself from doing so. He didn’t want to worry Auguste with something he wouldn’t be able to explain.

After all, what could he say? _Hey, Auguste, your best friend just rejected me and tossed me away like a paper doll. The worst part is that I’ve fallen so hard for him I can no longer breathe._

Funny. If this was a fictional story, he’d be puking out flowers. 

So he stayed in bed, purposely not moving, not even when Auguste sat right by his side and touched his hair. 

“What happened?” Auguste asked, caressing the side of his head softly, moving to do the same on his arm and back. He was comforting him even without knowing and that made him want to cry harder. 

_I’ve ruined everything, Gus._

“I’m a bit sick,” Laurent said, finally. His voice was rough, like he had spent the day screaming. Maybe he had. 

“Sick?” Auguste moved his hand back to his face, looking for a temperature, “You’re certainly warm, but not with a fever.”

“It’s just my stomach,” he replied, “It feels like stones.” 

“Greta told me you haven’t eaten all day,” Auguste said, softly, still by his side, still so attentive and warm. It made him shiver again. “Do you want me to stay with you for a bit?”

Laurent shook his head. He wanted to give in to Auguste’s affection and beg him to stay with him but also he wanted to be away from his touch forever. It was so conflicting he didn’t know what was going on inside of him anymore. 

“I’m fine,” _liar_ , “You were going out again, weren’t you? I’m okay, Gus. Have fun.”

Auguste didn’t seem convinced at all. “I can stay,” he said, “It’s nothing important.” A pause, “Lo, we don’t need to talk if you don’t want to, but we can do something else. Maybe play a game? Watch a movie?”

He shook his head again, “It’s fine, really. I want to sleep a bit.”

The answer didn’t come immediately. But at last, Auguste sighed, “Come on, little brother. Can I get a hug before I leave?”

Laurent sighed then uncovered his face, squinting his eyes at the light coming from the hallway into his bedroom. He had taken his glasses off hours ago and reached for them reflexively, Auguste’s face coming into focus. His eyes were dry and prickly and he ignored the urge to touch them. 

“You do look a bit sick,” Auguste whispered, caressing his cheek. There was concern written all over his features and guilt building itself in Laurent’s stomach for that. 

He didn’t know what to say. Instead, he reached over like he used to do as a child, and Auguste recognized the gesture for what it was. He had asked for a hug, and truth was Laurent needed it more than ever. Auguste embraced him, holding him dearly, and Laurent relaxed into it, hoping to stay like that forever. 

“I love you, Laurent.” Auguste said, then. As if he didn’t tell him almost every day. “You know that, right?”

_I’m here,_ Auguste was saying. _I’m here for you. I’m here._

“I know,” Laurent whispered, hugging him tightly, “I love you too.”

_Don’t leave._

_I was wrong, Gus. I don’t know any better. I thought I had grown into someone smarter but I still need you to help me out of these messes I make._

_I need you more than ever._

_Don’t leave._

Except, he’d never say that. If he voiced his deepest fears, they’d become true. If he kept them inside, however, there was a chance they’d go back to a place where they couldn’t touch him. At least for a while. 

He didn’t know for how long they stayed like that, holding each other. Brother to Brother. Auguste and Laurent. Laurent and Auguste. Looking back to it, Laurent would always think Auguste held within himself the magic to stop time. 

Auguste was the living blue butterfly. He was the one able to stop all the clocks. The winner of all games. The boy who collected old postcards and sheltered wounded animals during the winter. 

And that night, he held the key to Laurent’s heart and used it wisely, giving him exactly the cure to ills as if he knew his soul much better than Laurent ever could. 

For that and many more, Laurent was thankful. Always. 

“Can we talk about this when I get back?” Auguste whispered, rubbing his back in even strokes. 

_Yes._

If anyone had to know, it was Auguste. He didn’t need to, but Laurent knew he would listen. He knew Auguste wouldn’t judge him, Even if Laurent didn’t find the words, Auguste would figure it out, because he always did. 

It wasn’t terrifying or embarrassing, Laurent had been wrong. It was reassuring. 

After a minute, Laurent nodded. “Alright.”

Auguste pulled back then, looked at him as if he could save him from all evils, and combed his blond curls away from his face. Laurent could feel the tears again, behind his eyes, threatening to submerge him back into doom, one by one. He wouldn’t let them. 

“Just eat something, please,” his brother said, “There’s some soup downstairs.”

Laurent smiled the smallest smile, “Can I have some cake afterwards?”

Auguste smiled, too, “I thought you had a stomachache?”

“I told you I felt better.”

His brother sighed, then chuckled, “Fine, you can have some cake too.”

“Thank you.” 

“I’ll be back soon, okay?” Auguste made to leave, kissing his forehead and squeezing him again. 

_I’m not going anywhere,_ Laurent thought. He just wanted to be near Auguste. 

But that could wait. They’d have all night. All week, all summer. All their lives. 

Maybe he lost Damen, but he had Auguste. He’d always have Auguste. That was more than enough to feel like he had a bit of that magic too. 

Like he had won all the games. 

***

But Auguste hadn’t come. 

Laurent did find it a bit strange, considering he had been so adamant to stay, and texting Laurent he was coming back earlier. 

Their mom wasn’t in yet, but he had this strange feeling travelling all through his body that Auguste should have arrived already. Like something was out of its course. 

He was in the living room when the phone rang, in front of the TV, trying to distract himself with one of those crime mystery series. 

The voice on the other side of the line was a woman’s, her tone unreadable. “Is this the De Vere household?”

“It is,” Laurent said, muting the TV with the remote controller. “Who is this?”

“I’m calling from Saint Paschal’s hospital,” the woman said, “May I speak to Mrs. Hennike please?”

Hospital. 

Auguste. 

Hospital.

His head spun dangerously. “She’s not home right now.” 

There was a silence on the other line, then, “Could you please give me a number where I may locate her?”

“I could,” Laurent said, “What’s going on? She’s my mother. If anything happened, I should know.”

Another pause. “Are you Auguste De Vere’s brother?”

“Yes.”

“Your brother had an accident. He’s just been admitted.”

From there, everything seemed to happen in slow motion. When he answered, it was his voice who spoke but still he felt somewhere far away. It was him, and yet it wasn’t. 

He faintly managed to give the woman his mother’s office’s number, and he remembered calling her afterwards. 

“Take a cab,” she’d said, “I’ll see you there.” 

And

“Laurie, stay calm. It’s all going to go well.”

“Laurie, take a cab. Grab some money from the safe pot in my room. I meet you there, okay?”

“Laurie, okay?”

_Okay._

_Okay._

_Okay._

_Auguste._

_What would I do without you?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello guys,
> 
> I have no words. Whatever I say right now can and will be held against me...so I'll refrain. 
> 
> BUT listen, to make it even WORSE I mean BETTER here's a [fanart](https://heatherdrawings.tumblr.com/post/625945074204868608/show-chapter-archive) I comissioned from Heather! ISN'T IT THE MOST BEAUTIFUL PIECE OF ART YOU'VE SEEN IN YOUR ENTIRE LIFE? YES IT IS. She's so great; managed to capture the very essence of what the "childhood" arc of this story is. I'm deeply in love. Take a look at the rest of her art because she's fantastic and deserves all the praise! 
> 
> Honestly I am so incredibly thankful for all of you who continue to comment and/or send me messages regarding this story. The support means a lot of to me and your response overrall has been more than I imagined it'd be. 
> 
> Act I ends officially with Chapter 7, and then we'll turn the page onto my favourite parts so far :) I'm super excited to share them with you!
> 
> A million thanks, as always, to Ellen, my ride or die for almost four years into this writing hell and demon-friend who encourages me by listening to all the music I send ("because it's THEM, IT'S THEM!") and sending me super accurate gifs and stickers while I write. She's also to blame for most of the extremely funny dialogues and interactions between Aimeric and Laurent so all your MerLo feels go to her. 
> 
> "I need you so much closer" lyrics taken from [Transatlanticism](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O07WK7-ZkHs) by Death Cab for Cutie.
> 
> Feedback and comments fully appreciated! You know where to find me: I'm [princesgambit](https://twitter.com/princesgambit) on twitter (where I spend most of my time) and [dearanemone](https://princesgambit.co.vu/) on tumblr.
> 
> Check out Linger's playlist on Spotify [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3xzKQO5iKGl5LmoLbJUxUq?si=SD0-xQXHQy6TuYFZ1NrkUg). 
> 
> P.S. There will be a happy ending. 
> 
> Aaaaaand I'm out!


	7. Act I: Chapter 7

There is a game you must never play. 

It starts out as a challenge and ends up in tragedy. 

But you see, Damen and Laurent didn’t like to play fair. 

It didn’t really matter who had started, the whole point became seeing who would finish it. But neither of them really wanted it finished. Who wins, who loses. Who lives, who dies. 

We’re all yet to see. 

There was too much at stake. They’d gambled away too many things to let it go to hell; years of their lives gone away playing the game. Losing friendships, lovers, family.

Sometimes forever. 

How far are you willing to go for this game? 

***

_It is ironic that you always came to my rescue._

_But then away, you were always the first person I looked around for whenever I entered a room._ ~~_The one person I’ve been looking for all my life. And you were already there._ ~~ _And this time was no different._

_You were there, dressed like a royal and not my best friend. Mesmerizing, commanding the place as if you owned it. When my eyes landed on you, I was finally able to breathe._

_You smiled and gave me that look, that long, knowing look. Because of course you knew, you always did before anyone else._

_The carousel box rolled to my feet. You mouthed, in my instant of most doubt, the answer that I had trying to find in the corners of my mind. The one thing I wanted to hear._

_The one thing I_ _~~desperately wanted~~ _ _had to do._

_‘No.’_

_I felt relieved._ ~~_I was game._ ~~ _What else is there to being seen? Understood?_

 _I don’t know. Maybe I should have said yes. Maybe I should have given_ _you_ _up right then and there because now I can’t tell what it is that we did._

_But I said no, and we played again. I’m, as you have told me a million times before, a coward. You knew, and you were right._

_So what does that make you?_

~~_Why were we on that roof?_ ~~

_If I was stupid, careless, a coward, a traitor, then so were you._

_***_

Damen hated himself.

Repeatedly, since the night in the pool. Was it possible to feel _sour_ ? From the inside out, just _sour_ , because that’s how he felt. As if his entire body was _rejecting_ his own actions. 

He had spent the entire night thinking what to make of it all — his own feelings, Laurent and the kiss. 

_Laurent_. 

Very reluctantly, Damen couldn’t deny that he knew—had known, for a while now— that Laurent had a crush on him. It had started as a very charming, adorable thing to witness, and it was natural for young boys to get crushes. Who knows how many in total had Damen had as a kid and during his teenage years? 

So, when he realized Laurent was seeing him that way, he thought, mistakenly, that it’d eventually go away, like most adolescent crushes do. He had done nothing to encourage it, but then again had also not done anything to dissipate it, so maybe this was all his fault for leading him on unintentionally. 

It had been...easier —for lack of better word, although his poor choice of vocabulary made him cringe for being so insensible— to manage when Laurent had been thirteen, fourteen. But now he was a young man of almost eighteen years old with a too-sharp wit and strong temper on him. 

He had never meant to hurt him, if anything Damen had only ever wanted to spare him from all sorrows. That’s why he created the game in the first place; to see Laurent smile. To give him something to look forward to when his days were so difficult, bullied and left alone while Auguste studied and their mother worked. 

Damen had offered Laurent his friendship because it pained him to see him so down. Because he had seen him grow up from the outskirts of his world, and so had decided to build a bridge between them. An easy game, and then Laurent wasn’t alone anymore. When they weren’t together, they were thinking of the game, and therefore, in each other. 

It turned out that being Laurent’s friend wasn’t as challenging as he thought it’d be. He was a sweet, lonely boy in need of someone who’d listen to him the way family sometimes couldn’t. 

And so, bridges were built, and they rolled a carousel back and forth through the years. 

Ironically, in the end, Damen had been the one to fail Laurent. 

He had not been able to sleep properly, just replaying the kiss in his head. How scared Laurent was — trembling uncontrollably in Damen’s arms. How happy, however, he’d looked in the moments after. How shy and quiet he’d been in the car. 

How he’d almost kissed him again when they said goodbye. 

_Fuck,_ he’d thought. _Fuck. Fuck._

_Laurent._

And Damen had gone and destroyed that happiness, murdered the boy’s love. He saw it in Laurent’s eyes, the moment he said the words. His world came crumbling down, the light behind his eyes blown away like a candle. On the verge of tears and frustration, for a minute Damen saw him again a child about to throw one of his temper tantrums and it was too much for him to handle. 

Too much because that child had grown and was now a young man who kissed him and in the first second it felt so right that it was immediately wrong and now he was having a moral crisis over something that was not even his choice. Knowing that Laurent didn’t want to respect his own wishes and messed up emotions hurt him in a way he couldn’t explain. 

Laurent couldn’t yet see what Damen did; that their lives were taking them apart, because they were going to experience new, different things that made those six years between them seem more than they actually were.

And now, he was overthinking. 

He had a headache, which the heat did not help, and he felt overall miserable, laying on the couch opposite to Kastor and watching him play a video game although not very enthusiastically. Usually, he’d even try to let Kastor join him in one of those wrestling games he liked, but he just didn’t feel like it. He was still processing what’d happened — he was worried sick over Laurent and he couldn’t stop turning the thought in his head. 

Did he hate him? He certainly did. 

Would he forgive him? 

“Why don’t you buy a console for your apartment?” Damen asked, rubbing his temples, watching Kastor’s character move on the screen. 

Damen knew why. Kastor had said he didn’t want distractions while he worked, and so he only played when he visited their parents. Damen found the reason so stupid, he still couldn’t fully believe it. 

“I told you I don’t want any distractions,” Kastor responded, eyes fixed on the TV. “What’s with you today?”

 _I think I broke my own heart._ “The heat’s giving me a headache.”

“Then take an aspirin and stop sulking.”

“I’m not sulking.”

“You are and it’s making me lose the game.”

“It’s just a game.”

Kastor laughed if just a bit cynically, “Like the game you’ve been playing with that kid for the past, what, six years?”

Frowning, “Five.” And then, “And he’s called Laurent, Kas.” 

“And so what? He’s still a child. Auguste treats him like his son, basically.”

“Don’t be like that. You know what happened to their father. It’s not been easy for them.”

“You’re depressing me.”

_Same._

“Besides,” Kastor continued, “Don’t you think you have more important things to think about? Like starting in dad’s company, for example.”

“You don’t need to remind me,” Damen sighed, “It hasn’t slipped my mind.” _Unfortunately._

“Then drop the De Vere discourse and focus, Damianos.”

“You too are depressing me.”

Kastor gave him a look, then cursed, his character dropping dead on the screen after being attacked. 

At the same time, Damen’s phone buzzed. It was Auguste, and for a minute his stomach fell to the floor. 

_A: hey, are we still on for tonight?_

Picking up his stomach from the floor, Damen started to type. It felt strange, because Auguste had always been his best friend in the world. The person he told everything to. And now, he needed him —and a lot of alcohol— more than ever, but he wasn’t sure how that was gonna go. 

He could only hope well, because he didn’t want to lose both Auguste and Laurent in the span of a single day. 

_D: about 9 okay?_

***

_Drink up baby doll_

_Are you in or are you out?_

Turns out, alcohol wasn’t really what he needed. They’d gotten a single beer each and an order of spanish tapas to share. Usually, the bitter taste of the beer was enough to ease his tongue and encourage his thirst, but tonight was not like that. 

If anything, it made him feel a bit sick, but he forced himself to take sips to try and warm his stomach and therefore his own senses. 

Auguste was also in a strange mood. Not angry, not sad. Between content and anxious, the sort of feeling one has when nothing’s really happened but something in the air warns you about it.

The music was as loud as the people around them. The bass was so strong he could feel it’s rhythm in his own pulse, drowning his thoughts. 

_So let go_

_Jump in_

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Damen turned his eyes to Auguste, currently sitting and smiling on a stool in front of him. It was their favourite pub in town, the one they frequently visited since they were eighteen. They knew the place like the back of their hands.

Why did it suddenly feel like it was the first night he’d been there? The first night he was so awake, so aware of every little thing? 

_It’s alright_

_Cause there’s beauty in the breakdown_

“Sorry,” Damen said, snapping out of it. He took another sip of his beer. “It’s been a weird day.”

“Did you have another fight with Kas?”

“He enjoys scolding me,” he responded, “It only aggravates with age.”

“It’s our duty as older brothers to scold the lot of you,” Auguste joked.

“Well but Laurent is a menace,” _No, he’s very sweet,_ “Kastor believes he can boss me around as a strange way to please our father.”

When Auguste spoke again, the teasing tone was gone, “Surely you don’t mean he’s worried you’ll take his job?”

Damen gave him a look. Honestly, he didn’t know. Kastor, sometimes, was an enigma. When Damen was younger, he thought he understood him perfectly. Now he found out his brother was another stranger. 

Another person to tell him what to do. Where to go, what to wear, who to talk to. _Don’t embarrass father. You represent the company._

_Act like it._

“No,” _maybe_ , “I think he’s worried I won’t take it seriously.” 

“You could always branch out,” Auguste said, almost as an offering. “There are so many publicity companies in Marlas,”

_And I’m a fresh graduate with no experience and a masters in Marketing, which is basically the profile of at least another five hundred people looking for jobs right now._

Damen sighed, “You know how my dad would react. He’d disinherit me.”

“Then don’t let Kastor intimidate you. You’re clever and have good ideas, let your father see for himself what you can do.”

Leave it to Auguste to say just what he needed to hear. In that moment, Damen felt so infinitely lucky he could have hugged Auguste then and there. 

But the truth was, he wasn’t that worried over work as he was about Laurent. Whatever Kastor wanted to do or be, he could have it. A position in the family company wasn’t what Damen was after. Somehow, he’d always believed he was meant to do other things. Simpler things. 

_“You really should be a florist.”_

_“Then I’ll be a florist and you will be a swiss roll.”_

He smiled at the memory, lowering his eyes. If only he could bring himself to actually do it. 

How he envied that of Laurent. How free he seemed to be; ruled by the nonchalance that came with youth and that extended, in his case, without any barriers to stop it. He had always been spoiled rotten and hated to be told ‘no’. There was no God in the universe who could force him to do something he didn’t want to. No one who could tell him what to do or what to say or who to be. 

Damen both hated and loved him for it. 

If Damen were a selfish person, if he had been cunning and self-centered, he would have grabbed Laurent’s face and kissed him back in the pool. If he was to keep Laurent all to himself, to keep them both inside the bubble they’ve constructed over the years, he would have told him exactly what he wanted to hear. 

But Damen wasn’t that person. He’d preferred to let Laurent hate him, even if it meant breaking both of their hearts in the process, but let him have the life he deserved. Go to college and explore himself the way he was supposed to. Naturally, without strings attached, at his own pace. 

What good would it do to both of them, starting something upon infatuation and doubt rather than mutual respect and desire? 

“Auguste,” he said, and prepared himself for what would come, “Laurent kissed me yesterday.”

Auguste’s smile faded. Simply, “Oh.”

“I rejected him.”

Again, “Oh.” He saw Auguste’s face turn from surprised to concern and then understanding. “That...makes sense.”

“What do you mean?”

Auguste gave him a sad smile, “He was...in a mood, when I came home, but he wouldn’t tell me anything. But this makes sense.”

Pain struck the place in his chest where supposedly laid his heart. 

Of course Laurent was suffering. 

Of course he’d caused that.

Of course. 

“You’re not mad,” Damen said, carefully, “I would understand if you are. I was kind of expecting it, actually.”

“Well I’m not overjoyed he’s decided to pursue someone older,” Auguste admitted, scratching the side of his head, “But I know no one can tell Laurent what to do. And you’re a good guy, if anything I’m worried Laurent would be the one to force _you_.”

Frowning, a bit quietly, “I’m not that old.” 

Auguste laughed. “Certainly not. But still, you know what I mean.”

“I know.”

“Damen, you had my blessing when Laurent gave you his.” When Damen didn’t respond, he asked, “Unless I read it wrong, and you don’t feel the same way?”

Damen brought down the last bit of his beer, and considered ordering another one before responding. How could he say what he felt without sounding like an asshole? He didn’t want more misinterpretations, and yet it was awkward to talk about this with Auguste. 

The thought of having his ‘blessing’ as he’d said was enough to make his stomach bubble. 

Instead of an answer, Damen said, “Laurent hates me now, doesn’t he?”

“Now yes, but not forever. 

“I never meant to hurt him.”

“I know you care about him. You respect his curfew more than he does,” Auguste rolled his eyes, then put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly, comfortingly, “We’re not exempt from hurting those we care about even if our intentions are good.”

“I don’t know how I feel, I—” he paused, “I didn’t know what to do.”

“Then it’s a good thing what you did. I find there’s more heartbreak in doubt than there is in certainty, even if the truth is far from pleasant.”

But what was true and what was a lie? So far, Damen had been stating all the facts. All the reasons why they shouldn’t. 

What did he feel, really? 

A mix of strange happiness and dismay when Laurent had shown him how he felt. Dread and infinite sadness just right after. 

Oh, but _the truth is rarely pure and never simple_. 

“Give it some time,” Auguste said, “You’ll figure it out.”

 _Time_ . Sometimes, Damen just wished he could fast forward to when he knew better and thought better and _felt_ better. 

From the bottom of his often pure and rather simple heart, Damen said, “Thank you.” 

Auguste shrugged, clinked the bottle of his beer with Damen’s, “That’s what friends are for.”

And that they were. The best of friends. 

***

It happened too fast. 

There was no time to think or blink or take a breath. It happened too fast, neither of them realizing what was going on until it was done and all that was left was the silence that befell them after. 

Horrible silence and the smell of burned-out breaks. 

Faintly, it triggered a worn-out memory of yet another set of early spring days and his father teaching him to drive for the very first time. How he’d keep telling Damen not to slam on the breaks because he’d burn them and they were not easy nor cheap to replace. 

Plus, they gave off this smell of churned rubber that only went away after hours. 

He was seventeen. He’d been so excited to get his license after his eighteenth birthday, he’d invited Auguste on a road trip to the coast with their friends from school. 

How strange to remember that just then. In his head, he could recall it perfectly, only that he didn’t understand why. 

For the rest of his life, Damen would look back to that moment and analyze every little detail over and over again, trying to find exactly the minute where it all went wrong. Where it all changed for the worse and there was no undoing that could fix it. No rewinding in time, no chances to make it right. 

But he could never find it. Maybe the whole evening had been a mistake or maybe they were doomed from the very beginning. No one will ever know. He will never know.

But he would continue to blame himself until his very last breath. 

Damen and Auguste had been driving back home after their evening at the pub. They were chatting, the music just loud enough to make them both company but still low to be able to talk comfortably. Damen had offered to drive because Auguste was too tired.

And then.

And then, what had he done wrong? 

What had they been talking about? 

He couldn’t remember losing control of his senses. He couldn’t remember what they had been saying. All that was left in his memory was the few seconds before, the way he’d looked at Auguste when he’d spoken last.

“This song,” he’d said, “Laurent loves this song.”

He was smiling, and it made Damen smile too. Of course, because Auguste and Laurent were so similar, their tastes sometimes also converged. He saw in the way that Auguste knew all the lyrics and sang perfectly to the melody that it was not only Laurent who loved it. 

Damen had teased him for it, and so they were singing and laughing and going _“If I could change the world.”_

_I would be the sunlight in your universe_

But Damen gasped. It was a two way road, a car was on their lane, approaching them at a speed that left too little time to maneuver. He gasped, reflexively turning to their right, out of the way. He could hear Auguste yelling, or maybe it was himself, another thing he’ll never know. 

And then it was all crash, bang, smoke. 

Later, Damen would find out they’d crashed head-on. That there was nothing he could have done differently to prevent it, and that it wasn’t his fault. But those words were always devoured by his guilt and the nightmares. 

When they crashed, he lost consciousness for a minute or two before he came back to it in pieces. He took in the blurred vision of the other car, smashed in front of them, directly hitting the passenger seat where Auguste was, unconscious, his head turned to the right away from Damen’s view. 

_We crashed._

_I crashed._

_Where are we?_

His head hurt so much he thought it was breaking in two. The smell of the breaks was making him want to vomit. There was so much smoke it was making his eyes water and setting up the many panic alarms in his head. 

What if it exploded? What if the car caught on fire? 

“We need to,” he mumbled. Get out of here. We need—Auguste, “Auguste.”

Damen reached over, but his body wasn’t obeying, his arm dropped back to its place and he felt a wave of pain hit him, making him shudder. If he hadn’t been so dizzy, he would have screamed. 

“Auguste,” he tried again. “Auguste.” and again, “Auguste.”

Why wasn’t he answering? 

“Auguste.”

Was he not saying it loud enough? Was he saying it in his head? He was so scared, but in the span of a second he’d forgotten why. His limbs were so heavy, he desperately tried to move to no avail. 

Why was he so afraid? He felt like crying. He _was_ crying. 

And out again he went. 

The next time he was awake, it all came back in full force. Distantly, he could hear the sound of a siren, and a couple minutes after, there was a paramedic by his side.

They were talking, making him questions he heard but couldn’t make out. The meaning of the words slipped him. His ears rang, the pain in his head had gone dull then pounding then dull again. 

“Help my friend,” Damen said, “He’s not responding to me. He needs to go to the hospital.” And then, “Please.”

The paramedic said something else, something that should have been reassuring but that he took the wrong way in his stupor. 

“I’m fine, please help him. You need to help him.”

_We crashed._

_Augusteisnotrespondingtomeandwecrashedbuthe’salivehehastobealive._

_He’s alive. He has to be alive._

Finally, the words started to make sense slowly, “...ir? Sir? Can you hear me? We’re going to do everything we can to help your friend. Alright?”

They took him out of the car and put him on a stretcher, losing sight of Auguste until they too pulled him out of the car. His eyes were closed, his head was bleeding, his golden hair had turned red. 

_Be alive. Be alive._

_Auguste, you can’t die._

The paramedic above him was snapping their fingers, pulling him out of his mind “...ame? Sir, can you tell us your name?” 

“Damen.” 

The lights were too bright. 

“Damen, how old are you?”

It hurt to breathe. 

“Twenty-three.”

His mouth tasted like blood.

“Do you know where you are right now? What city are we in?”

And vomit. Had he vomited?

“I don’t know.”

“Do you know today’s date? What day of the week is it?”

He couldn’t remember. 

The paramedics put him in an ambulance, but continued to speak with him. They were holding him, telling him not to move his head too quickly. His friend was right after him, they said, in another stretcher. 

“Do you know what happened to you, Damen?”

“We crashed,” Damen said. His eyes filled with tears, and once more he cried. He couldn’t explain why, but it was the only thing he could do. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t drift away, he couldn’t understand his own thoughts much less try to express them to someone else. 

But they kept him awake and all he could do was cry as he felt the ambulance move, speeding far away from the worst scene of his life. 

“Who is ‘we’?” 

“My best friend and I,” he said, “Auguste. He is my best friend.”

_You have to save him._

_Don’t save me. Save him._

***

Damen had not yet seen Auguste by the time they finished patching him up. He was high on some kind of painkiller, but oddly enough that meant he could think a bit better. 

He was more aware now, answering questions regarding his family —who were, as they assured him, on the way— and the accident. The shock was still there, only dimmed by his rising anxiety. 

He had a broken rib, a broken arm, a stitched up shoulder, a concussion and several burning cuts in his face attributed to the glass of the front of the car breaking due to the impact. Luckily, they’d told him, he didn’t get any in his eyes. 

All he cared about, however, was Auguste. 

They’d taken him away and ignored his questions. A part of himself told him to embrace for the worst, but the thought was so unbearable, he couldn’t bring himself to continue down that lane.

So he waited. He waited until Kastor arrived along with Damen’s mother. Waited while they completed the paperwork that Damen hadn’t been able to do. Waited until someone came out of the room where he had seen them take Auguste. 

Waited until a doctor came to see him, and the world lost all its colours at once. And his life, the precious strings that held his life, snapped, leaving him to free fall for the rest of his days. 

“I’m very sorry,” the doctor said, “He had a head injury that fractured his skull. He lost too much blood.”

But why? Why couldn’t they save him? Could he see him?

He was alive. He was sure he was alive, he could feel it. 

Why weren’t they trying to save him? 

“He was already brain dead by the time he arrived. I’m sorry, there was nothing we could do.”

He had a faint pulse, but then he’d been gone and they couldn’t bring him back. He couldn’t believe it. He just couldn’t. He needed to see Auguste, he needed to—

But he was dead. 

Auguste was dead. 

“What do you mean you can’t give me that information? _I’m his brother._ I demand to see him right this instant.”

_His voice._

“I asked you a simple question, where is my brother? He was with a friend, his name is Damianos Akielos. They had a car accident, someone told me they’d be here.”

_Laurent._

“I have the right to know where they are! I need to see them, _please_.” 

The moment Damen heard his voice, a part of him disconnected from everything around him. His heart stopped, and his stomach clenched, as if he’d just gotten all air kicked out of him. 

As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t hide. As much as he wanted to run away, he’d never be able to. 

~~He’d killed…~~

~~He’d…~~

No, this was partly a punishment from what he’d done. From all the pain he’d caused this pair of brothers who never did anything else but love him in their own, sometimes odd and inexplicable ways. 

This, he deserved. 

He watched Laurent turn from nurse to nurse, doctor to doctor, yelling and knocking papers and coffee out of people’s hands to gain their attention. 

When blue eyes landed on his, the panic in them receded to relief and then confusion, but still alert. Always alert. Always Laurent. 

He was wearing the same clothes from that morning, and yet it felt as if a complete lifetime had passed from that moment to this ending. 

“Damen,” Laurent said, running to him, seemingly speaking not in sentences but _paragraphs_ , and they were too much for Damen to process all at once. At last, he touched his shoulder carefully, examining him from a safe distance, as if he could hurt him. The same shoulder Auguste had squeezed earlier and where a shard of glass had impaled itself into. A scar that wouldn’t fade, they’d said. “Damen, are you alright? What happened? Where’s Auguste?”

Laurent looked at him with the same look as when he was younger — whenever he asked a question that he already knew Damen could and would answer. Whenever he was confident someone was by his side. 

It was the last time Laurent would look at him like that. The last traces of his innocence, of his gentle and sweet essence, were gone that night. 

Damen looked back at him, knowing it’d be the last time, and deliberately broke Laurent’s heart. He broke him because if anyone had to tell him, it was him. If anyone deserved Laurent’s hate was him. 

He only wished Auguste could forgive him from taking everything away, from being a terrible friend. 

His voice was low and rough. There seemed to be needles through his throat with every word he said, “There was an accident.” He swallowed again, mouth dry except for the salty tears on his lips, “A car crashed into us.”

It was almost a whisper when Laurent spoke again, “Where’s Auguste?”

“Laurent, I’m so sorry.”

_Auguste, I’m so sorry._

“Damen, where is he?”

The words came out like knives, cutting and desperate and _so sorry_ , “He didn’t make it, Laurent.” Then, “Auguste is—.”

“You’re joking,” Laurent whispered again, “Stop it. It’s not funny. Where is my brother?”

“Laurent,” he said again, “Auguste died on the way here.”

“ _No_.”

“They tried to,” he couldn’t say it, “Bring him back. But he couldn’t, he—I’m so sorry.”

Laurent’s face changed. From shock to fear to denial to pain and agony. Right then, Damen knew he’d lost Laurent, perhaps forever. Louder, Laurent asked, “Why?”

And then, it came all at once. Suffering turned anger, affection to affliction. 

“Why are you here and not Auguste?”

_I don’t know._

“What did you do?” 

_I don’t know._

“Why did you take him away from me?”

_I didn’t mean to._

Laurent was screaming, pushing him, hitting him in all the places where his body had turned wrong. He was kicking him, and crying, and yelling words that Damen never wished to hear again while he lived. 

He was torn and tearing Damen apart, and Damen let him. There were people surrounding them now, trying to take Laurent off of him. Trying to loosen his grip on Damen’s now bleeding wounds. 

But all Damen could do was stand and take it all. He thought he deserved it. He thought the least he could do was take Laurent’s anger, if he could just take all that poison. 

If it meant anything to him. 

If it gave him any solace, any consolation that Damen couldn’t give him otherwise.

Then it was fine. 

When they managed to take Laurent away from him, he was sobbing, his snot pooling on his upper lip. His face was blotchy and red and the image of him so miserably broken would follow Damen in his worst moments. “This is all your fault.” he said, “This is on you. It should have been you.”

It should have been you. 

It should have been you. 

It should have been you. 

It should have been you. 

It should have been you. 

It should have been you. 

It should have been you. 

It should have been you. 

It should have been you. 

It should have been you. 

It should have been you. 

It should have been you. 

It should have been you. 

It should have been you. 

It should have been you. 

It should have been you. 

It should have been you. 

It should have been you. 

It should have been you. 

It should have been you. 

It should have been you. 

It should have been you. 

It should have been you. 

_Yes, it should have been me._

Then, as if on cue, Kastor was beside him. As if on cue, his older brother showed up to protect him, slapping Laurent, hard. The sound of it cutting through the air, making Laurent’s yelling stop. 

Kastor hadn’t protected him since they were children. And maybe he didn’t do it for Damen but out of pride or hatred towards Laurent. Whatever reason it was, in a way Damen felt thankful. He felt safe. 

“Kas,” Damen said, “Leave him. It’s fine.”

Kastor said something loud enough that only Laurent could hear. He saw Laurent tensing up, cleaning his nose with his sleeve; like a child, a helpless, lost child. 

_He needs his brother._

“A doctor needs to look at those again,” Kastor said, to him this time, already walking away, “Let’s go.”

But before Damen followed, he gave one last look to Laurent. To the boy of his game. His other best friend. Auguste’s baby brother. 

He wished for his happiness. He wished for his forgiveness. He wished to see him again, someday. 

Laurent didn’t see him. He was already running towards his mother, and the best thing he could do then, Damen realized, was leaving.

So he did. 

***

_“We gather here today to celebrate the life of Auguste De Vere, who has now returned to his home with Our God, The Father. We’re here to say our last farewell to such beloved son, friend and brother.”_

Auguste’s funeral was held three days later on August the 21st of 2008. 

It was a horrible day, and it continued to be, no matter the years that passed since then. Theair always to be hot and damp, preceding a downpour. The sky above getting darker by the second. 

It always rained. 

But that day, he couldn’t smell any rain, only burnt rubber mixed with the metallic, poignant smell of blood. And dirt. And his own body, perspiring medication. 

It made him constantly nauseous, and there was nothing he could do to change it. He hadn’t avoided death or been granted salvation, but rather it seemed as if death had clinged to him like a ghost. 

His best friend’s ghost, refusing to let go. 

_"Lord our God, you are the source of life. In you we live and move and have our being. Keep us in life and death in your love, and, by you grace, lead us to your kingdom, Through your Son, Jesus Christ, our Lord."_

Damen was holding one of the white roses to lay on Auguste’s casket as the priest spoke. He held it close to his chest, as if he could impregnate the flower with all the things he felt but couldn’t share and all the thoughts that threatened to sink him further into a dark hole of despair. 

How to say sorry to someone who’s gone? Who will never be back? 

And more importantly, how do you even say goodbye? 

He couldn’t. He couldn’t say the words — they’d carve into his heart forever. Letter by letter, until he was not able to recall a life with Auguste in it. 

_Goodbye._

_Farewell._

_It shouldn’t have been you._

Death, just like love, lingered. Death was even worse, for it never really faded away. You learned to live with the constant reminder that you were missing something important and you could never have it back. No matter how much you pleaded and prayed and begged on your knees every night; it didn’t work. 

And love, sometimes, allowed him to forget. Death never did. 

As the priest spoke, Damen knew he’d think of Auguste every second of every minute of the rest of his life. He knew he was condemned to carry the memory of how he had not been able to save him, and that in the end, i _t should have been him_. 

Instinctively, Damen looked up and felt as though he was dreaming. His mind, trying to play a trick on him and take him somewhere more pleasant, where he couldn’t be hurt. Or maybe it was the high amount of drugs he had to keep in his system to be able to function like a person for a couple hours. 

Either way, it worked to keep him steady. 

His family was beside him, his mother clinging to his arm and crying silently, weeping uncontrollably since the day of the accident. She was close to Hennike, after all. He’d probably ruined that too. 

If his father felt anything at all, it didn’t show. If Kastor was bored or annoyed, it didn’t show. 

At last, his eyes went to Laurent, and he allowed the clocks to stop, just once more. He was wearing Auguste’s sunglasses, the pair they’d shopped together, yet everyone could see the tears that rolled down to his cheeks and to his chin. He never moved, never made a sound, never turned his head. He stood there impassively, acknowledging no one’s presence but the two people by his sides. Holding his right hand was his mother, her face clean and emotionless, empty in a way that frightened Damen. _I caused this._ Holding his left hand like his life depended on it was Aimeric, who cried more openly, but held himself more strongly than Laurent did. 

If Damen could just take a few more steps and reach out to him, his Laurent, pull him into his arms and apologize for all the pain he’d caused him, tell him that if he could he would trade his life for Auguste. If Damen could just hold him and be held in return.

That would be enough. 

But there were no happy endings after this. 

Above them all, the sky cried out with a thunder. Small droplets started to fall and he welcomed the coolness in his head, making him shiver. He wondered if maybe the gates of hell would open and claim him right then and there. 

_From dust you came, to dust you shall return._

One by one, they grabbed a handful of dirt to throw on the casket. His hand trembled as he did so. 

_“You gave him life. receive him in your peace and give him, through Jesus Christ, a joyful resurrection"_

One by one, they set the roses. One goodbye after another. One season after another. One life after another. Ashes to ashes and dust to dust. Laurent was last, right after Hennike, taking the sunglasses off his face and putting them along with the flowers. His eyes were red, and although the tears never stopped, his features remained unchanged. 

Somehow, Damen thought he’d avoid his gaze, but to his surprise, Laurent looked back at him. 

And that’s how it ended. 

One last look. One that lingered. 

_“Give him, o Lord, your peace and let your eternal light shine upon him.”_

There was nothing in Laurent’s face that he could read. There was nothing there at all.

_Goodbye Auguste. Goodbye Laurent._

_“The Lord bless you and watch over you. The Lord make his face shine upon you, and be gracious to you. The Lord look kindly on you and give you peace.”_

Damen stayed, even after everyone was gone. Even after the casket had been buried, next to the grave of their father. Even after Laurent and Hennike left, and his own family left. Even after it started to rain. 

Even after every single fucking thing. 

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “Auguste, please forgive me.”

If this had been another life, another story, Damen would have seen Auguste wrap his arms around him, squeezing him strong enough to take the breath out of his lungs. He would have heard him say what he needed the most, and what was, after all, the only truth. 

“It wasn’t your fault.”

But he couldn’t, so he cried, for the life he had and the story he had written and the chapters that now would never come. 

One second, to wreck a life, and all the years that would follow. 

One second. One summer night. One kiss. A blink, and crash, bang, smoke. 

One last look, and Laurent’s blotchy face with his stone eyes and the light that died with Auguste. 

“Damen,” Auguste would have said, “It wasn’t your fault.”

In the Name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.

Amen. 

**END OF ACT I**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll try to make this note as short as I can given the circumstances. Some service announcements: 
> 
> 1\. I'm sorry.  
> 2\. I really am.  
> 3\. Please believe me.  
> 4\. Updated the tags.  
> 5\. This is the end of Act I; next week there'll be a side chapter and then one week of interlude before we begin Act II. I know this is a lot to take in after Ch.6 but I promise we'll get some well-deserved happiness at the beginning of Act II. 
> 
> As always thank you to Ellen and demon-friend for not unfriending me after writing this. 
> 
> "The truth is rarely pure and never simple." quote by Oscar Wilde. 
> 
> "Drink up baby doll / Are you in or are you out?" & "So let go / Jump in" & "It’s alright / Cause there’s beauty in the breakdown" lyrics taken from [Let Go](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VvdzKHhgANA) by Frou Frou.
> 
> "If I could change the world / I would be the sunlight in your universe" lyrics taken from [Change the World](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7olhO3LbCqI) by Eric Clapton.
> 
> Feedback and comments fully appreciated! You know where to find me: I'm [princesgambit](https://twitter.com/princesgambit) on twitter (where I spend most of my time) and [dearanemone](https://princesgambit.co.vu/) on tumblr.
> 
> Check out Linger's playlist on Spotify [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3xzKQO5iKGl5LmoLbJUxUq?si=SD0-xQXHQy6TuYFZ1NrkUg). 
> 
> See you next Saturday<3


	8. Act I: Chapter 2.5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Side chapter from Auguste's POV.
> 
> “Won’t you feel way better if you take your finals without any pants on?”

_Why are there so many songs about rainbows_

_And what's on the other side_

_Rainbows are visions_

_But only illusions_

_And rainbows have nothing to hide_

When Auguste was five years old, his parents told him he’d become a big brother. 

He didn’t really understand what that meant, except that he’d have a little baby being—who, as they said, could maybe also _look_ like him, and that was a bit scary yet fascinating— to play with. A little brother or sister to take on adventures, like on a trip to _Neverland_ . That was exciting enough to have him happily waiting for the day to come. The day to meet that little being —and get some fairy dust— even if it meant sharing all his toys, as they had also said, and becoming _responsible._

Odd word. Like _sharing_. 

His mother had prepared him for months in order to meet the little being; she’d told him babies were fragile and so they needed the utmost protection and care and affection. She’d taught him to be gentle when he put his hands on her belly, waiting for the little being to kick back at him. 

He was amazed every time the little being did, in fact, kick back. As if they could communicate somehow without seeing each other. Without knowing each other’s names yet. 

Later on, he’d grow to know the word _instinct_ , and yet that wouldn’t explain the sibling telepathy he seemed to have with his younger brother. 

“That’s your little brother, Gus,” his mom had said, smiling as he jumped excitedly. “He knows you’re here.”

After Auguste had turned six, _Laurent_ was born. 

It was a beautiful name, Auguste thought, leaning over the crib and popping the bubbles the little one made with his mouth. 

Laurent seemed to like it — he laughed and babbled and shook his arms in his direction, trapping his index finger in his tiny fist. 

Auguste smiled fondly. He couldn’t explain exactly why. It wasn’t just funny or entertaining. It was just...

 _Golden_ , in his mind, _yellow_. His own name was blue, and so perhaps they’d go well together. There were so many colours in a rainbow — so many colours in every single thing he saw or thought. All the words, all the numbers and sounds and voices. 

And Laurent had the prettiest ones. They were bright like stars, glimmering in his eyes. 

_He has a beautiful heart,_ he thought. _A colourful heart._

“Lo,” Auguste whispered, pulling his finger back. Laurent tightened his grip on it. “Let go.” 

Immediately, Laurent started to whimper, a bit louder each second. 

“No, no, don’t cry,” he said. “I have an idea, wait.”

Carefully, Auguste climbed the crib as smoothly as he could and made sure to flip and land right next to Laurent and not on top of him. All the while, Laurent watched him, his big blue eyes almost scrutinizing him. 

Auguste stared back at him, made a funny face that made Laurent blink and giggle, then laid down next to his little being, his little brother. 

It was a bit tight and cramped with the two of them in the crib, but Laurent was warm and smelled of soap and _baby_ and so it was cozy. Above them, the music mobile had stopped spinning, the little moons and stars frozen in time. 

It was a cold morning and he had woken early after a strange dream of giant bees and ladybugs having tea. He could hear the usual noises downstairs, someone making breakfast, someone in the bathroom — but the person that now had all of Auguste’s attention was Laurent. 

Had he been asleep, Auguste would have probably left not to disturb him. But he was awake, just calm, his hands on a frog plushie. And so, he’d stayed. 

They laid there for a long time, holding hands, touching each other’s faces, grabbing each other’s noses. 

“I’m so happy that you’re here,” Auguste said softly, “Lo.”

 _Golden,_ Auguste saw in his dreams, like Lo. Like love.

***

The thing about Auguste was that he couldn’t really say no to Laurent. 

It was a type of weakness he didn’t know if he could overcome. 

Even with the younger’s wildness and irreverence, there was a certain sweetness about watching Laurent, _his_ Laurent, grow more into his own skin and experiencing things for the first time that softened his edges. And he just couldn’t say no to his —sometimes strange— requests, like taking a picture of Damen wearing boxers to take one of his finals. 

It was ridiculously childish and a bit evil and well of course it had to be Laurent to come up with such an idea. Playful and cunning and yet still naive at thirteen. 

Of the two of them it had always been clear Laurent was the fierce one. Which seemed like a weird thing to say if you didn’t know Laurent the way he did. To most people, Laurent was quiet if not shy. Attentive, yes. Clever, absolutely. 

That wasn’t all; he had a vast imagination and a mind for scheming. And on top of being a good listener, he was also a good liar which made for a recipe for perfect troublemaker. 

Auguste adored that. 

_Talking about troublemakers…_

Laurent was sitting on the swing seat at the porch, fully dressed in his uniform with his backpack on the cushion next to him and intensely looking over the house next door. Auguste had a hard time deciding whether his little brother was spying or trying to burn the building down with his gaze. 

Probably both. 

He poked Laurent on the shoulder, and when he didn’t turn, poked him again and again on his back and ribs and neck, “Shouldn’t you be on your way to school?” 

“Stoooooop,” Laurent whined. “You’re so annoying.”

Clutching the backpack to his chest, Auguste sat next to him. “And you’re going to be late.”

“You too.”

Following his gaze, “What are we waiting for?”

Laurent turned to see him then, grinning from ear to ear, “Damen.”

“You know,” he said casually, as one would talk of the weather. “I’d very much appreciate it if you didn’t kill my best friend. I’m rather fond of him.”

Laurent scoffed, “I’m not going to kill him.”

“Is there a worse fate than death?”

“Public humiliation.”

“Ah,” Auguste said, trying not to grin. “So first degree murder.”

Laurent shushed him. “Here he comes.”

Two seconds later, Damen walked out of his house dressed in a red t-shirt, a jacket and...black boxers. A pair of tennis shoes to balance it out nicely, too. He was avoiding both Laurent and Auguste’s gazes and the faintest blush adorned his dark cheeks. 

Auguste tried, for the sake of their friendship, not to laugh his ass off. Even when Laurent was cackling loudly and uncontrollably by his side. He couldn’t tell what was funnier; Damen decidedly taking a university final in boxers OR Damen decidedly taking a university final in boxers because _Laurent_ had dared him to. 

By now, Auguste knew not to engage in any of Laurent’s games and used his older brother privilege as a shield from situations like this. It worked at least seventy percent of the time. 

~~We don’t talk about the other thirty percent.~~

“Morning, Damen,” he said, suppressing the laughter attempting to creep out of his throat. “How are we feeling?” 

“A little cold,” Damen answered.

“Let me see your bag,” Laurent said, snatching Damen’s satchel from his shoulder. As Laurent went through his stuff, Damen’s eyes caught with his; they widened, asking for help. Auguste shrugged, grinning a little.

“Aha!” Laurent exclaimed, pulling out a piece of fabric.“What is this?” 

Damen pursed his lips for a second before replying, “It’s a scarf.”

“Cheater!”

Protesting, “I can’t cover myself with that!”

Laurent seemed to consider this, “I guess that’s true,” then, he turned to him, “Gus you have to follow him and make sure he keeps his end of the deal.”

Auguste sighed, preparing himself for the doe-eyed look that would come next. “I have classes too, Lo.”

Pulling his best wounded puppy face, Laurent insisted, “Come oooooon. You have to. Pleaaaaaseeee?”

The thing about Auguste was that he couldn’t really say no to Laurent. It was a type of weakness he could never overcome. 

He rolled his eyes, then nodded and smiled, “I’ll see what I can do.”

Beaming, “Thank you.” Then, Laurent stood up from the swing chair, grabbing his backpack and throwing it over his shoulder. “Remember to take pictures.”

He made sure to see Laurent off to school on his bike, promising to make Damen’s day even more mortifying than it already seemed to be, before walking towards his car.

“Don’t cheat or your next dare will be much worse!” Laurent yelled in lieu of goodbye, Auguste waving in his direction. 

When his blond head was completely out of sight, Damen walked to the passenger seat door and let out a sigh, “Your brother is a menace.”

“You did this to yourself.”

“Auguste, my friend, please,” Damen begged, “I can’t possibly take my final like,” gesturing to his bottom half, “ _this_.”

Auguste unlocked the car, biting his lip to avoid grinning, and hopped into the driver’s seat. He started the engine and let it heat up considerably. As they waited, he turned to Damen, sitting by his side looking like he’d rather eat a roach than go to school. “You have to keep your promises, Damianos.” 

Unbelievingly, “You’re enjoying this too!”

He thought of it for a moment, then playfully, smiling mischievously as Laurent did too, “Just a little bit.” 

Shaking his head, arms crossed over his chest, “I can’t believe you.” 

“Here,” he said, reaching to the back seat and then tossing a pair of clean gray joggers towards his friend. “We’ll take the pictures and after the final you can change.”

“I love you,” Damen replied, emotion in his voice. “Thank you.”

Deciding the car was warm enough, Auguste pulled out the driveway and took them out of their neighbourhood towards the highway. It was a relatively short drive if there wasn’t any traffic, and considering they were fashionably late, hopefully they’d be spared the pain of the peak hour. 

Most of the time, he took turns driving with Damen, and it was rare when they took both of their cars at the same time since their schedules were fairly similar. They’d been driving around together since they were eighteen, and it felt rare whenever they didn’t. 

They’d even gone on a road trip, once, just after graduating high school. And it was decided Damen was by far a better driver than he was. He had much more patience. 

Luckily for him, today the roads were almost completely clear. 

“If you’re so upset about this dare,” he asked, after a while, “Why didn’t you just tell him no?”

“Because,” Damen said, a bit overly dramatic, “I’m not losing this game.”

“And there I thought Laurent was the thirteen year old here.”

Sticking out his tongue playfully, “It's a matter of principle, Auguste.” 

Shaking his head a little, “What are you going to dare Laurent to do after this?”

“Eat a beetle.” 

He made a grossed out sound, “That’s very mean.”

“Excuse me, is going to university in underwear not mean to you?”

“I mean, of course it is. Is the beetle alive or dead?”

“What's worse?”

“Alive, probably.”

“There we go.” And then, cheerfully, “Some literal beetlejuice.” 

Auguste laughed. “Gross.”

Damen was laughing too. “And don’t you dare interfere.”

“Me? I’ll record the whole thing.”

“I like your neutrality.”

“To be fair, things have been really entertaining since you both started that game.” 

“Yeah,” then, softly, “I think he’s happy.”

“He is,” Auguste smiled, thinking of how rare Laurent’s smiles used to be, and how now the sound of his laughter was becoming rather quotidian. “He loves that box, too.”

“It was my grandma’s,” Damen replied. “She gave it to me when I was very small, right before she passed away. She said it granted wishes.”

“And does it?” 

“I don’t know. I never wished for anything.” And then, “You know how they always say everything has a price? My grandmother was so superstitious it was ridiculous. It’s just a candy box, anyway. My grandpa used to steal the toffees she hid there.”

“You do know _The Monkey’s Paw_ is only a story right?”

“One never knows.”

“Coward.”

“I’m not!”

“You are.”

“You sound like a child again.”

“I don’t know about you but I never grew up, just got taller.”

“I can see that.”

“Don’t be so envious.”

“You’re so much like Laurent.”

“He shares only my best traits.”

“I wouldn’t say so.”

“Believe me,” Auguste smiled, “He does.”

“You don’t have any good traits.”

Fakingly offended, “I’m taking my joggers back.”

But they both knew he wouldn’t. He was too kind, too willing to turn off the fire. 

And yet for someone like Auguste, it was strangely amusing when it was his own brother who started it. When Laurent always did all the things he’d never think of or dared to. More than envy, it was pure admiration. 

All the freedom he’d never allow himself, he wished it upon Laurent. He wished for his happiness, for his safety, for his success. 

He wished Laurent to be satisfied with life. He was so hard to please, even as a child, Auguste sometimes feared nothing would ever be enough for him. Nothing and no one. He wanted Laurent to know that some empty spaces could never be filled with words or books or games.

Some empty spaces would remain empty, and no wish could change it. 

There were places inside of every person that were only accessible to ourselves and ourselves only. Places only we knew how to reach when the tide got high and we feared and we cried and we desperately tried to find something to hold onto. 

And desperation only made us tired. And tiredness only made us weary. And weariness made us anxious. And anxiety made us scared. And fear made us angry. And anger made us make mistakes.

And mistakes couldn’t be unmade. 

And words couldn’t be taken back. 

“Take care of Laurent, would you?” Auguste said then, meeting Damen’s gaze as he turned to face him. “Don’t let things get too wild.”

Damen smiled, reassuringly, “Of course. You know he’s like a brother to me.”

“I know.”

But we knew everything when we were young. Everything that meant nothing, and none of the important. 

He wondered then, if the box could really grant any wishes, what had Laurent asked for? 

What did he want most in the world, besides the world itself? A golden boy, looking for gold. Auguste couldn’t wait to know. 

***

Damen’s suffering ended soon enough.

After driving them to school, Auguste made sure to walk Damen to his class, dismissing the whistling and cat-calling and mocking stares as he took the necessary pictures. And then waited for his traumatized friend to finish his final so he could get changed and move on with his day. 

To be honest, Auguste found it hilarious from beginning to end, but he’d never say it outloud. 

The rest of his day was uneventful and verging on boring. He went to his lessons, took his finals, handed in assignments and so on. Once he was done, he drove straight to Laurent’s school and waited for the end of his classes. 

Half an hour later, the kids started to walk out the building and he rolled down the passenger window, waving a little as Laurent spotted him. He was walking with another boy of dark curls and freckles. 

He waited while Laurent mounted his bike on the back of the car and once he was inside Auguste asked, “Is that your friend?”

“Who?” he asked, shifting his head to take a look back towards the school. “Aimeric?”

“Yes.” _Aimeric_ , then. “Is he nice?” 

Laurent frowned, “ _Nice_ is not a word I would use to describe him, no.”

Smiling, “Well, he seems to be.”

“He’s…okay.” 

_So they’re friends already._

“Ready for the book fair then?” 

“I have a list of what to get,” Laurent responded, pushing his glasses up. Then, grinning, “Show me the pictures.”

And Auguste did. He leaned closer so they could both look at his phone as he swiped through the pictures he’d taken of Damen earlier. In all of them he looked equally devastated, like a kid needing his mother, and Laurent was laughing so hard it became silent.

“You’re terrible,” Auguste said, holding his laughter. “Don’t you feel bad for him?”

“Not one bit.”

“Karma’s going to bite your ass.”

“Fair enough, but it’s all for the game dear brother.” Laughing hard again, scrolling through Auguste’s phone. “People were staring too.”

“Yep. He caught the attention of plenty of girls.” After a second, “And boys.”

Laurent stopped laughing. It died suddenly, and the pause was too long before he asked, “Really?”

“Yeah.”

Another pause. 

“What is it?”

“Nothing.”

Auguste almost rolled his eyes, “Do I have _idiot_ written on the forehead?”

“Maybe.”

“Laurent.”

“It’s nothing!”

Carefully, Auguste stole a glance — his brother’s face was bright red, “Why are you blushing then?”

“I’m not blushing, it’s—the heat,” Laurent stammered, turning on the aircon and tossing his uniform jacket onto the back. His cheeks were still blotchy and red and so he looked like a perfectly round cherry tomato. 

“Uh huh,” Auguste nodded, pulling the car out of the parking lot, “By the way, Mom said you could only get five books this year.”

“What? That’s not fair! I have a list of twenty five items.”

“Too bad, baby bro.”

“It’s unreasonable, how does she expect me to choose only five?”

“Call her and ask.”

Pouting, “No. She’s scary when I get difficult.”

“So you do realize you’re being difficult.”

“Shut up.”

He turned on the radio after that, and they sang along to all the songs they could recognize, and it ended up becoming a competition to see who could name the title and artist faster than the other. It had been a while since they’d hung out like this, and Auguste wanted to make each second count for every evening and night that Laurent had had to have dinner by himself and go to bed all alone in the house. 

It wasn’t much and it didn’t make it all better, but the book fair meant a lot to them both. Going together each year was something he was always excited about. 

Upon arriving, the place was somewhat crowded and yet not as bad as it would get during the weekend. Friday afternoons were the best days to go to the book fair, considering it was in the open air and just after the sun was at its peak, when there was a cool breeze around the city and the trees moved their branches in unison, the leaves singing their song. 

There were stalls of independent bookstores and then big corporations and publishing houses. All kinds of genres and stationary and of course little food tents and cubicles selling drinks and sweets that attracted all the children. 

It was all too familiar. Too comforting. It made his heart squeeze and expand and hurt a little. 

Familiar, like something he used to know. Someone he used to be. 

Laurent, on the other hand, was ecstatic. He took his hand and dragged him around, all while sharing a deep analysis on why it was almost impossible to choose just five books of his list and how they’d have to spend the entire evening deciding. 

“‘We’ sounds like a crowd,” Auguste said, raising an eyebrow. 

His little brother, of course, ignored him. They roamed from stall to stall, like bees to flowers, and after some good three hours, Auguste was holding one book for himself and at least ten for Laurent, who in the end had given up and said he’d deal with their mom when they got home. 

When they were too tired from walking and carrying books, Auguste bought them pretzels —salty for him, sweet for his brother— and they sat down at the steps of the square where the event took place. 

Comfortable silence and sharing a bottle of lemon flavoured iced tea, the kind that was mostly chemical but greatly satisfying. They watched the people walk by and the children feeding the pigeons. 

“Are you thinking of dad?”

He lowered his pretzel and turned to his little brother, sitting by his side, “Why do you ask?”

“You always do when we come here,” he said, softly. “It makes you sad.”

Bumping their knees together, “I’m not sad, I’m having fun.” 

“You’re a bad liar.”

“I’m not lying — do I seem like I’m not enjoying your company?”

“No.” And then, “You can say you miss him, you know...just because I don’t remember him doesn’t mean you have to pretend that you don’t also.”

“That’s not—I’m sorry if it seemed that way to you. Lo, I’m not pretending anything.”

“I tried to read one of his books,” Laurent said, “but I couldn’t understand it...it seemed like it had no beginning and no end. Just the middle...and it was too much. Like I was intruding into someone’s life without permission.”

Auguste wasn’t sure if he meant the character or their father, but from the vague description he couldn’t tell which book it was. He’d read them all countless times. “Which one did you try to read?”

“ _A monster is crying._ ” 

“I remember when he published that one. You had just been born,” he smiled at the memory, at the orange skies, at his little Laurent. “He did a signing at the book fair that year and brought me along. I was in awe at the amount of people that queued just to meet him. I kept telling him he was famous and he continued to deny it all day long.”

“Was I there too?”

“You were with mom. She took you to the children’s section, letting you choose your first book.”

“Dad’s book…” he wasn’t looking at him, but at some random point ahead. “Did you understand it?”

“It’s a strange one. About a monster who had not always been a monster and the tears that wouldn’t stop blooming from his eyes. He lived crying. All he could do was cry. He didn’t know why and couldn’t remember when it’d started, only that they became part of his life. Tears were the language of the heart, and they dropped as fast and uniform as did the blood through our veins. But he couldn’t understand what the tears were saying — he was a monster after all.”

“Why did he become a monster, then?”

“You should read it when you’re older.” He smiled. “It’ll make sense to you then.”

“But I want to know now.”

“Don’t be greedy. You still have time, Lo. All you have is time.”

“What if I don’t understand it even when I’m older?”

“Then I’ll explain it to you.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

“He wrote very odd things,” Laurent said, a bit quietly. “Very sad things.”

“Have you read the one about the bird in the cage?”

“Whose owner dies? I have. I liked it, but it shocked me a little. The way he talks about the bird’s futile life. Maybe I didn’t understand that one completely, either.”

“I think you’ll like them later on. He was very similar to you, after all.”

“In what sense?”

“He was also a nerd.”

Laurent scoffed, “Says the one who calls Star Wars a masterpiece.”

Auguste leaned over and snatched a piece of Laurent’s pretzel with his teeth, chewing and swallowing it as fast as he could. “That’s for being a mean little brother.”

Shocked, Laurent hit him once, twice. “I’m going to kill you!”

All he could do was laugh. Laugh even as Laurent attempted to get half of his own pretzel as retaliation and laugh as he held it over his head where Laurent couldn’t reach. 

Each year, they seemed to tell a different story, and yet the book fair remained the same. They changed like the seasons, like characters from a book.

But they always came back, just like the monster always cried and the bird entered its cage. They came back to the _familiar_. Whatever gave us a piece of a treasured memory, we chased it. 

Whatever could fill those empty spaces, we chased it. 

Perhaps next year he’d find it. Perhaps on the next book fair, on their next life, with the little being by his side. 

Perhaps then, and if not, after.

For all they had was time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!!
> 
> I hope you've had a good week! 
> 
> As you could see from the summary this is a side chapter that serves as an interlude between Act I and Act II. I'm not very satisfied or proud of this one but I wanted to write a little something from Auguste's POV because these siblings deserve some quality time together as well as bffs Damen and Gus. I also hope this has managed to ease the burn from last week's chapter at least a bit. 
> 
> Thanks a bunch to Ellen and Lyss who edited this for me and demon-friend who watched me constantly delete and re-write a shit ton of drafts till we could find the perfect voice and pace for Auguste. Also thanks to all of you for reading and leaving me super nice comments (and death-threats oops) I love you all so much, you make my days. <3 
> 
> "Why are there so many songs about rainbows / And what's on the other side / Rainbows are visions / But only illusions / And rainbows have nothing to hide" lyrics taken from [Rainbow Connection](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JTEXY3aytn4) originally written by Paul Williams, covered by Sleeping At Last. 
> 
> FYI: There won't be an update next week as I'll be taking a scheduled pause before we fully immerse ourselves in the next part of this crazy journey. Depending on factors such as work, health and my crumbling personal life, one week might turn into two, so I apologize in advance if that happens but I'm counting on following my own schedule as tightly as I possibly can. (Don't worry though, I have a handful of chapters ready shall the worst happen) 
> 
> That's all from me, folks. If you want to keep in touch during the pause, you know where to find me: I'm [princesgambit](https://twitter.com/princesgambit) on twitter (where I spend most of my time) and [dearanemone](https://princesgambit.co.vu/) on tumblr.
> 
> Check out Linger's playlist on Spotify [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3xzKQO5iKGl5LmoLbJUxUq?si=SD0-xQXHQy6TuYFZ1NrkUg). 
> 
> Take care during the pause and see you very soon!


	9. Act II: Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “It is easier to tell a story of how people wound one another than of what binds them together.”
> 
> ― Anne Carson

_There’s not a day I don’t think about you._

_When you are here and when you’re there. When I wake up and when I fall asleep — it doesn’t matter, my mind is yours._

~~_My heart is yours._ ~~

_I think about you, it drives me mad. Do you think about me, sometimes? At least once?_

_Am I being too much? I’m losing my mind._

_I won’t ever say it outloud, you know that. I see your eyes and I come undone. I hear your voice and all thought is gone. You laugh and take my hand, you say you love me._

_But it’s just you being kind, and I’m here losing my mind._

_It’s a type of folie, the effect you have on me. Half of my heartbeats are spent wondering when will I find again that gaze, that smile._

_Can I ask for a kiss? Can you make it last?_

_And when you have me, don’t break me._

_You already tore apart my mind,_ _~~please don’t break my heart.~~ _

***

Laurent woke up to the sweet sound of an angry, tormented ex-lover. 

The fact that it wasn’t _his_ tormented ex-lover only made it both better and worse because he couldn’t murder the person but it also meant he didn’t need to deal with it. Not exactly. 

Unless he had to bury the body. 

The man was yelling, crying, furiously trashing stuff outside the apartment that made it feel as though he was in the middle of a fucking war. All in a language he didn’t know that well to know the full meaning of the insults, but his basic vocabulary reaffirmed it was nothing good. 

He groaned, tossing and turning and pressing a pillow to his head to try and muffle the sounds and continue sleeping, but alas, there was no stopping a war without a bloodshed, much less one about love. Or sex. Or money.

Knowing Nicaise, it was likely to be all of the above. 

Begrudgingly, Laurent reached for his phone in the nightstand. The clocks marked seven in the morning, and that was enough to set him up and about, ready to kill someone. He shoved his glasses on his face and stormed out the bedroom, cringing at the cold tiles under his bare feet. 

He half expected to find Nicaise by the door, but of course he wasn’t. He never actually cleaned up after the messes he made, he had people do it for him. Ever since they met, Laurent was slowly becoming one of them, but definitely not by choice. And it was something that Laurent completely hated about him

Come think of it, there was a time where he couldn’t stand the sight of him and then he probably stepped into the wrong mirror and they had become acquaintances and then friends. It still didn’t make Nicaise less infuriating, but just a bit more digestible. 

_But not his accent. Never his accent._

Had he even slept there the night before? 

Cursing quietly, Laurent took a few more steps on those icy cold tiles, trying to avoid stepping on the rug they kept by the main door —because it felt gross and weird and overall wrong— and took a look through the fisheye. 

The man outside was, indeed, one of Nicaise’s many toy boys. Laurent didn’t remember neither his name nor his occupation — after all, the grand majority of them shared almost the same physical traits and were easily coaxed and manipulated. In other words, they were all hot enough to be fucked and dumb enough to be dumped, just about Nicaise’s type. 

“Nicaise!” the man yelled, banging on the door hard enough to startle him, “ _Apri questa cazzo di porta o la butto giù a calci!_ ”

It was too early for this. Too early to try and translate what seemed to be hysterical death threats. Rolling his eyes, Laurent left the door and went straight to Nicaise’s bedroom, pushing the door open so hard it landed with a loud bang on the wall behind it. 

“You better tell him to go the fuck away or I swear to—”

Before Laurent could finish his sentence, he tried to understand the scene before him. The bed was unmade, and Nicaise, awake, wearing nothing but his boxers, trying to get a leg over the railing of the small balcony connected to his room.

Rushing, Laurent reached the balcony, pulling Nicaise back from his own stupidity ~~and maybe death~~ , “What the fuck are you doing?” 

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Nicaise answered, unbothered. He looked fresh as a lettuce and it took all of Laurent’s will not to punch him in the face. 

He wanted to go to bed so badly he could have cried as loud as the Italian fucker waiting outside. 

_Maybe we should join forces._

“We live on the third floor,” Laurent said, matter-of-factly, “How the fuck do you think you’re going to escape?”

Nicaise opened his mouth, then was interrupted by what seemed to be the loverboy trying to force their lock, “Shit.” He licked his lower lip, eyebrows furrowed, “Help me get the bed sheets.” Then, seeing Laurent’s confusion, “We’ll tie them together.”

Laurent sighed, rubbing his temple, “You know that only works in movies.”

Nicaise moved, shoving past him and entering the bedroom and tossing pillows off the bed, “Where do you think they got those ideas to begin with?”

_“Nicaise, porca miseria, lo so che sei lì dentro.”_

“Plus,” he added, in a light, spirited voice, “I’ve always wanted to be a stunt double.”

“Why is he so angry?” Laurent asked, helping tie the bed sheets ~~although he wasn’t sure what he was doing~~ strong enough they’d keep together. “Do you owe him money or some shit?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Nicaise said, waving a hand at him then wrapping the bedsheets around his waist. 

“Then?”

A shrug, “Europeans — very explosive, theatrical even. And it seems also very monogamous.”

Not disappointed, much less surprised. “So you cheated on him?”

“We never agreed to be exclusive,” Nicaise replied, like it was the most obvious thing, “And then—well, there was a family gathering and turns out attractiveness is a trait that runs in the family.” 

Disbelievingly, “You did not.” Very disappointed, still not at all surprised. “I might even let him kill you now.”

“I would prefer if you didn’t,” Nicaise said, stepping into the balcony. Laurent followed. “We have a reservation for dinner tonight.”

“You’re worse than Aimeric.”

Grinning, “He’s not even close to getting on my league.”

“You’re a pig.”

In that thick, heavily annoying _british_ accent of his, Nicaise said, “You’re not very creative in the morning, are you, love?” Laurent wanted to push him over the railing and go back to bed. “Okay, let’s tie this around the rail and you hold it while I go down.”

“And then?” he asked, “What am I supposed to tell _Othello_ outside?”

“Just tell him I went to Brazil,” a little shrug, “It’ll be fine.”

“If you break your neck, I’ll testify to your stupidity.”

“It’s a leap of faith.”

“Same thing.”

Nicaise moved to the other side of the railing and started to go down. With a smile, he looked up and winked at him, “See you tonight.”

_You’re unbelievable.  
_

In that moment, Laurent couldn’t help but smile and then laugh as he watched Nicaise successfully reach the ground and run barefoot to his rented black scooter, waving him off before riding away Satan knows where. 

Maybe another lover’s bed. 

His smile faded, however, when he heard another big turd on the door. Pulling back the bed sheets, he left them on the floor before walking to the entrance, yelling something about calling the police in his poor italian, and opening the door at once. 

The man didn’t wait for an invitation, instead barged in, pushing him away and looking around like a rabid dog. He took another look at Laurent and spoke in English this time, “Where the fuck is he? I’m going to chop his dick off.”

“He left last night,” Laurent said, brushing locks of his hair away from his face. He resisted the urge to pull it up into a knot. It was hot, too hot inside the apartment, and he was beginning to sweat. “Big business in Brazil.”

Narrowing his eyes, “You’re lying.”

“I guess it’s your word against mine.” 

“Tell me where he is.”

“You should forget about him. He’s a whore,” His lips twitched up and he forced them down not to burst out laughing. He wasn’t _lying_ , but still it was funny to slander Nicaise _publicly_. “You’re not the first and you certainly won’t be the last.”

The guy swallowed, he seemed to be having troubles keeping himself together, “I thought we had something special.”

“They all do. But you’ll find someone in no time, just let go off this asshole.”

Hesitating, “Maybe you’re right.”

“Of course I am. Now, if you may,” he gestured towards the door, “I have things to do.”

With Othello gone, Laurent allowed himself five extra minutes in his bed, clutching the pillows with his eyes tightly shut, just the time it took for his coffee to be made. He took a shower afterwards and tied his hair in a low bun, keeping it off his nape and granting him a small advantage against the damp air of italian summers. 

Suddenly his childhood in Marlas hadn’t been nearly as bad, compared to how hot it was across the pond. Everything was exacerbated in Europe, and yet it was where he’d gotten his first real doze of complete freedom. 

And happiness, or something akin to it. 

Nicaise had used explosive as a word to describe it. Theatrical. He didn’t agree, but there was _something_ in that city that made Laurent feel as though he had entered a strange dream. 

_A better version._

He felt like himself, and then at times he didn’t. The days when he didn’t speak to his mom or Aimeric were the easier ones — helped him forget the life he had had. Nicaise was different, because he had arrived to his life in a moment where the big storm had passed, and so his presence didn’t trigger memories that weren’t getting drunk in college parties and absurdly competitive debates that made his blood boil. 

That feeling of being disoriented in a city he didn’t know surrounded by people whom he’d never met was more relieving than anxiety-inducing, and so he preferred it. 

~~_Like a vice._ ~~

He ate two biscuits as he got dressed, sipping his coffee every now and then, reading over the pages he had finished analyzing for his summer internship. Once he was done, he took one quick look at the apartment before grabbing his satchel and leaving, locking the door after him. 

His new normal, his new routine; shoving earbuds into his ears and putting his playlist on shuffle, humming in his head as he made his way down three flights of stairs, then using his entire body to push a heavy and ancient wooden door. Walking past the fountains and cafés, stopping to pet one of the neighbourhood cats on his way to work. 

Still the same boy, only taller, hair slightly longer. Stronger will, slower pace, a faster tongue and wittier brain. A college degree hanging from a wall in his mother’s house. 

_A better person._

Still the same carousel box, hidden under his bed. 

***

That afternoon, Laurent talked to his mother. 

Their communication had grown strained with the years, in the sense that there was not much he could tell her and there was not much she’d ask for. 

She was still the same joyful, supportive mom he had always known, but she was tired ~~of him~~ and life had not been kind to any of them. They took it easy, kept it casual; as non-committal as one could be with a parent or a son considering there was now an ocean between them. One of the things that changed after Auguste’s death was how she’d granted him his freedom. 

And how fast he’d taken it. 

Still, in a way, Laurent held onto her as much as he could, even if he was empty handed, ~~even if he was a bad son~~. Even if they’d both lost things and said things and did things that made them unknowable, unhappy, even unlovable. 

She was his mom. 

~~How long more until she let go off his hand?~~

He loved her. 

It was an easy equation, and yet a long one. 

Because of the time difference, by the time Laurent finished with his internship, his mom was having her lunch break. They’d skype and talk of their days, office gossip, Nicaise’s lover’s temper tantrums. 

Sometimes, if she was at home, she’d have Clementine on the call too. Hold her in front of the camera for him to see. Whenever Laurent would talk, she’d move on the direction of the sound and then stay very still, waiting. If he spoke again, Clementine would either strike or tongue-flick the camera, it all depended on her mood. 

It was amusing and it made his heart clench. On a particular bad day, he’d end up cutting off the call early and focusing his entire energy onto not crying. 

If anything, the only reason why he wouldn’t consider moving overseas permanently was Tiny, who hissed each time he talked about boys. 

His Tiny, an anchor to his other life. The wrong one. The sad one. 

Today, Clementine wasn’t on the call, which made it easier. He teased his mom about eating yet another quinoa avocado salad, watched her giggle, telling him she did it because she liked it and not because of another silly diet. He, of course, knew she was lying. 

“It looks good, mom,” he said, “Your haircut.”

She’d cut it a bit above the shoulders, a simple bob that suited her more than the long, mournful locks she’d kept after the accident. She fixed her fringe slightly, “Thank you, honey. I’m still trying to get used to it.”

If he was Auguste, the words would come easily, on command. He’d tease her further, tell her to make her colleagues jealous. If he was Auguste, they’d still talk, but _really_ talk. He’d open when she knocked the door, and if she didn’t, he’d open anyway. 

But he couldn’t. 

Some days he tried. Some others he didn’t. 

Regardless of the choice, regret always came. 

He was often torn between the need to see his mom, to make sure she was still there, and then not being able to act normally around her. As if he had unlearned that skill. As if they were standing on opposite sides of a window, seemingly close but never actually touching. 

Before he could dwell on it further, the main door came open, Nicaise —fully dressed in what seemed to be too big borrowed clothes— walking in while talking on the phone in another language that Laurent was too tired to decipher. Mandarin, maybe? He took a look at Laurent, sitting on the couch with his laptop and strolled past him into the kitchen. 

“I’ll let you go now, sweetheart,” his mom said on the screen. Laurent hadn’t realized he was spacing out until she spoke.

“Are you going back to work so soon?” he asked, trying to look back at her with the same reassurance she was looking at him. Failing. 

Nodding, “I don’t want to take more of your time,” then she waved, “Say Hi to Nicaise for me.”

He nodded, “Will do.”

“I love you, Laurie.”

Laurent waved back, “Love you too, mom.”

 _I miss you_ , he thought.

Although perhaps not enough. 

_I miss my family._

What was left of it.

Staring at the laptop screen, it occurred to him that he was homesick for something that will never get to be again. It wasn’t just his strong desire to relieve certain memories, but it went past beyond wanting, more like a necessity. To see it all over again, to feel it all over again. 

_To play a song over and over and over until it’s engraved on your brain._

Otherwise, he felt wrong. All the time, he just felt wrong. 

Was there a greater punishment in this life than the perpetual homesickness for a place in time you cannot go back to?

 _Yes_. 

It was visiting a grave. 

***

Because he needed to be away from his own thoughts for a minute, Laurent closed his laptop and walked down the hall to Nicaise’s bedroom. The door was open, as Nicaise only ever closed it when he was sleeping, and Laurent peeked inside to see him taking piles of clothes out of his closet. 

For the life of him, he couldn’t understand why someone would need so much stuff, ever. It seemed all Nicaise ever did was buy clothes, travel and fuck hot men. 

~~_Not a bad life to lead._ ~~

Leaning against the doorframe, Laurent watched him, arms crossed instinctively, “Where were you all day?”

“Visiting another lover,” Nicaise said, tossing a pair of black jeans on the bed, “Half Brazilian, by the way.”

Laurent snorted, “You’re terrible, you know that?”

“Do I perceive a hint of envy?”

“Not in the slightest,” he said, crossing the room to sit on the bed. In a way, he had a lover himself. Something that he was trying to get used to. “Are we still going out for dinner?”

“And drinks afterwards.”

Part of him wanted to stay at home and go to bed as soon as possible. The other just begged for some alcohol and a cigarette, but he didn’t smoke anymore and he knew the alcohol wouldn’t fix the uneasiness that grew in his stomach every time he skyped with his mom. 

He had already tried too many times. It never worked. 

Laurent lay down and sighed, “Can’t we just have some ice cream and call it a day?

“What are you, twelve?”

“Yes.” 

He had been twelve years old for a long time now. Longer than enough. Any minute now, Tinkerbell would show up at his window and teach him how to fly. 

“We can have ice cream _and_ cocktails.” 

“You’re a bad influence.”

“The worst.”

“At least you admit it,” he snorted. Absently, Laurent pulled out his phone, going through messages just to have something to do. “Have you heard anything from Mer?”

“Not today, no,” Nicaise said, pulling out a pair of leather pants from a drawer, “There we go. These should fit you.”

Raising an eyebrow, “I’m not wearing those.”

Nicaise looked down at them, then back at him, “Why not? They’d shape your ass nicely.”

“Nicaise, it’s at least twenty five fucking degrees outside, they’d skin me alive.” 

“To be a star you’ve got to see stars.” 

Laurent rolled his eyes, then frowned, “Aimeric hasn’t replied to any of my texts. Not in the groupchat either.”

“That’s a bit odd. Are you wearing your hair up or down? I vote up.”

“Twenty five degrees,” he said, then, “I’m going to call Aimeric.”

“Good idea, he can help me choose your outfit.”

“I can choose my own outfit.”

Nicaise snorted, “No, you can’t.”

“Yes I can.”

“No you can’t.”

“Yes,” Laurent said, annoyed, “I can.”

“You shop at Zara.”

Laurent ignored him, not fully grasping the insult, and called Aimeric through FaceTime instead. 

It rang for what seemed an eternity. That was the first alarm. If there was one thing Aimeric couldn’t live without was his cellphone. He always picked up, always texted back. During the year Laurent had been away, there was not a single day where he didn’t get at least one text message from Aimeric, which only made his already settled uneasiness grow. 

Even during their worst, when exhausted and overworked, they’d let the other know they were still alive and kicking. A single “ _alive_ ” would suffice. 

It wasn’t like him to ignore his calls or Nicaise’s messages, as much as Nicaise could get on anyone’s nerves. 

When he finally picked up, ~~Laurent released a breath,~~ his screen went all black. Laurent could see himself in the small box on the top right, but the rest of it was all a distortion of monochrome, light coming from something like a tv. 

“Mer,” Laurent said, squinting his eyes, trying to see _anything_ within the darkness of the other end, “Are you in bed?”

“Hey,” Aimeric adjusted the camera. Even almost in complete darkness, Laurent could tell how dreadful he looked. That was the second alarm. The voice came out a pitch lower, rougher, “Yeah.”

“You didn’t go to work today?”

He shrugged a little, “I took a day off.”

“Are you sick?”

“Kinda, just the flu or something.”

_But the last time you had the flu you were constantly whining about being congested and calling to ask me to watch The Little Mermaid with you until you fell asleep at three in the morning._

“If you need anything—”

_What?, the voice in his head said, you’re coming back?_

_What, Laurent, do you plan to do?_

Aimeric cut him off. That was the third alarm. “I'm fine, what's up?”

Laurent ignored it. “Nicaise is making me go out to one of those loud pubs again.”

“Ah, have fun then.”

“Wait!” Nicaise said, “Look at the outfit I have planned, you'll love it.”

Laurent swapped the phone’s camera for Aimeric to see. An all black outfit wasn’t rare on Nicaise, neither the sapphires hanging from his earlobes. Apparently if Laurent was wearing leather pants, Nicaise had to wear a matching leather jacket, with a long sleeved silk shirt and velvet embroidered pants. Heeled boots because he had a thing for boosting up his height, even if he didn’t need it to work everyone else into submission, be it a lover or not. 

He could roll his eyes at the thought, but stopped himself this time. Laurent didn't know that to be a fashionista you had to be uncomfortable in every weather. But truth was, Nicaise managed to wear something insane and ridiculous every time they went out, and somehow Laurent was also dragged ~~against his will~~ down that spiral.

Aimeric barely reacted; said something to Nicaise about changing his shoes, but didn’t particularly engage as he normally would. Laurent tried to make him laugh, telling him all about Nicaise’s escapade to Brazil in the morning and how he’d probably cheated on the guy with his entire family. It made him smile, if only a little. 

But, the thing is, Aimeric wasn’t the type to sulk; even when stressed or anxious, he was more on the constructive side rather than laying in bed doing nothing ~~just like Laurent did when something didn’t go his way.~~

This wasn’t how Aimeric dealt with his problems, so what was the matter? And why wasn’t he telling them?

The smile lasted only a second, replaced by the Abyss reflected in Aimeric’s features. He wasn’t there. Who knows where. “I think my headache is coming back”

“Do you want me to call Jord?” Laurent asked, “He can go over there.”

Aimeric laughed bitterly. It wasn’t unlike him, but what was rare was the sudden disdain upon mentioning Jord. It was usually the opposite; Jord was the sun, and Aimeric the flower. “No, that's not necessary. I just need to rest.”

That was the last alarm. 

“Okay,” he said, because what else could he say? How could he help someone when he was a complete ocean away? “Hope you feel better soon”

“Thanks,” the words rushed, forced out, “Love you.”

Before he could say anything, Aimeric hung up. 

Next to him, Nicaise said, “Something happened.” 

_Something’s wrong, and I’m not there._

_Something’s wrong, and what can I do?_

Something’s wrong, and wasn’t he Aimeric’s best friend since they were thirteen? Wasn’t he supposed to know now? 

“Yeah.”

“Laurent,” Nicaise said, not unkindly, “Don’t stress.”

“I know,” and then, a sigh, “I just—I’ve never seen him like this.”

“He'll spill everything eventually, he just needs to process it.” 

“If we were there, we would know.”

_Something’s wrong and I—_

Nicaise looked at him like he was stupid. He certainly felt so. “You can't possibly blame yourself for that.”

“He's always been there for me, in the worst moments of my life. And I want to be there for him too.”

“That’s fair, but you know that whatever it is can’t be fixed tonight,” Before he could protest, Nicaise held up a hand, “And even if you were to go back, it’s not an hour long flight.”

Defeated, “I know,” and a little quieter, “I don't feel like going to the pub tonight.”

“Nope, we're going. Otherwise, you'll just stay here sulking and that's not going to do you any good.” 

“It will certainly feel better than being surrounded by a drunk lot.”

“That’s until you get drunk too. Then it’ll be extremely fun.” 

After a beat, Laurent said quietly, “You're paying for the drinks.”

Rolling his eyes, “Yes, Your Highness. Now go get dressed.”

***

Laurent had a love-hate relationship with pubs. 

Easily and unsurprisingly, he hated drunks. He hated the smell of spoilt alcohol absorbed into the walls. He hated the air so thick and dense he could taste people’s sweat. He hated the noise, the constant rhythm of the music beating so hard it was like a collective heart, infiltrating his body, eating his own pulse alive. 

Surely enough, this one was better than most. It was nice, modern looking with average music and good selection of drinks. Clean but crowded. ~~Noisy~~. They always were, because Nicaise was expensive. But to him, it was all the same joke of getting wasted and doing it all over again. Better than the awful partying Aimeric and Nicaise insisted to do at college, but still.

Still.

A joke. 

He had always been introverted ~~and asocial~~ , but the older he got, the less willing he was to get on the eye of such a storm. In high school he would have taken any opportunity to feel genuinely ignited and alive, and in college it went to be the exact opposite: hunting for opportunities to be numb and thoughtless. 

Like a switch, a thermostat. On and off. Hot and cold. Alive and dead. Laurent and whoever he was now. 

Just a face in a crowd, a body in the mass. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. 

Weepers to puddles.

“Sinners to hell,” he whispered, throwing back the last bit of his drink. 

If you asked him right then and there what did he feel, what did he want, who he was, he wouldn’t be able to tell. He had ended up in Italy not running away from his overflowing piles of issues, but by chance. 

Just the way he and Aimeric had met Nicaise back in Marlas, who in turn signed Laurent up for a master course abroad without telling him even. 

And he’d received the news on an empty stomach, smoking a cigarette while laying down on campus, trying to stop himself from trembling from anxiety, practically ready to be consumed by the earthy gods hungry for spare human flesh. 

He’d come here by chance. Here; this country, this city, this bar. 

He’d gotten up from him and Nicaise’s private booth by chance, three drinks on him and ready for a fourth one. He’d recognized the song playing, also by chance. Because he was good at song association, a skill from a previous life. 

~~A game.~~

Because he wasn’t expecting anything anymore, he was just getting by. He was not reading into anything anymore, he was just skimming through. 

Upon reaching the bar, he asked for another too-sweet cocktail and waited, leaning his small back on the counter. The world tilted dangerously to one side and he closed his eyes for a second, pushing through it. One more drink was probably a bad idea, but wasn’t he terribly fond of those? 

He tapped his fingers on the counter along with the music, recited the lyrics softly in his head. 

_“I still think of you a hundred times a day”_

Laurent opened his eyes, and his world stopped on itself. 

He was dreaming. He was sleeping. He was dead and entering hell.

 _If_ this _is hell,_ he thought, _I’ll gladly stay._

It was impossible. 

_“I still think of you too, if only you knew_

_I just need to work out some way of getting me to you”_

It couldn’t be _him_. Not in a million years. Not here; in this country, in this city, in this bar, only meters away. He was drunk, drunker than he’d thought. 

His drink arrived, and he grabbed it, his hands beginning to tremble. He took one, two, three sips. It was sweet and cold and grounding. 

_It’s not you. You’re not here. I haven’t seen you in ages._

Walk away, Laurent. Walk away, and we can forget this part of the story. Walk away now, pretend you never saw him. Pretend you weren’t there. Pretend you didn’t care. 

Walk away, Laurent De Vere. 

Laurent didn’t walk away, but forward. His feet moving by themselves, pulled like a magnet. He looked again and again, just to make sure it wasn’t his eyes or the light or life and the universe pulling a prank on him. 

But it was him, of course it was him; okay and healthy. Alive, laughing, clean shaved, with shorter hair and bright white teeth and perfect dimples he had poked more than once. 

Unlike the last time Laurent saw him, Damen wasn’t high on medicines and patched up from heads to toe. He wasn’t crying, he didn’t look one minute from following Auguste to the grave. 

Unlike the last time Laurent saw him, Damen wasn’t looking for him in a crowd. He wasn’t aware of his eyes on him. He was talking to another man next to him, both with drinks in their hands. And Laurent wasn’t angry or filled with sorrow; this time he was ~~nothing~~ almost glad, almost relieved, to see him. 

And perhaps that was enough. Perhaps it was enough to know Damen had made it through. Perhaps he didn’t need to know why he was here or what was he doing. Perhaps, he should let it be.

Leave that door closed. Leave that life back in Marlas, and those unforgiving memories, those days full of games. 

His heart was hammering an exit door on his chest. It was ready to flee the scene, leave him to his fate.

Walk away, Laurent. Walk away. Walk away. 

He licked his lips, clutched his drink between his trembling hands. No one ever noticed, and yet he was suddenly afraid Damen would. Oh, he felt like a teenager again. Back to being seventeen, wanting to fix his hair, stuttering on words and every thought. 

_If you don’t look at me now, I let you go._

He wasn’t allowed to have Damen back. Not after everything he’d said and done. After all the pain he put him through and exiling him from his world. 

From his little life. 

_Look at me but if you do, I can't leave so maybe please don't look._

One more step was probably a bad idea, but wasn’t he terribly fond of those? 

_Look at me._

He was selfish. He was drunk. He wanted everything and giving none. 

_“I just need to know that you're safe, given that I'm miles away”_

He was selfish. Had always been. 

“Damen?”

The moment he said his name, Damen turned around, looking for something. Someone. 

_Me_. 

When their eyes met, Laurent’s heart skipped a beat. Too late to back pedal, too late to hide. 

They were the same brown eyes he remembered; dark yet still bright, sweet and indulgent, expressive and large. 

He saw Damen’s face change from confusion to recognition to surprise, probably mirroring his own. Happiness, then embarrassment, and overall: disbelief. 

He wanted to smile, do something, but he was petrified. He couldn’t think or breathe or move. So Damen came to him, at last. ~~Damen would always come to him, at last.~~ Laurent watched him whisper something to the person he was with, then made his way to him. 

Why was he still so beautiful? 

When they were only inches away, Damen leaned over, talking over the music, “Hello stranger.”

Laurent couldn’t breathe. 

He choked out, a second too late, “Hello Damen.”

"I don't know if I'm dreaming or not, but this is a surprise."

Laurent couldn’t breathe, was too hot, and thought he might faint. Damen always had that sort of reaction over him: visceral and illogical. 

Was he happy to see Damen? Was _he_ happy to see _him_? He didn’t really know. He couldn’t tell apart a rock from a fox. He couldn’t discern any of his feelings, they all ended up in the same place, begging for more alcohol to cope. 

Was this how it felt back then? This intense? Was it a panic attack? Maybe he had been running away, after all. But now the past was right there in front of him, demanding, expecting. 

And he had been an idiot for thinking he could deal with it. 

Breathing out, he asked, “What are you doing here?” 

Damen grinned, "In this pub or in Italy? Or in front of you?"

~~In this lifetime. In my head. In my heart.~~

In spite of it all, Laurent laughed, "In Italy, you dork. I thought you'd be CEO of your dad's company by now.” 

"Almost." Damen said, and then, "I'm here for work, actually. I just signed a contract with a client. What about you?" He eyed him up and down, "Summer holiday?"

Suddenly, he felt very self conscious. What was that Nicaise made him wear again? A ridiculous pair of too tight leather pants, a light, almost translucent white long-sleeve button up shirt, opened up slightly to show his neck and collar bone. Dangling, golden earrings. 

He hated him. 

"I've been living here for the past year,” _this is too much,_ “I'm getting my masters.”

"Oh," Damen stopped at his lips, then back to his eyes in a millisecond, "The Italian air has done you well, then."

Before Laurent could say anything else or even process _what had just been subtly said and done_ , there was a slight touch to his elbow, then his shoulder, “Laurent.”

Nicaise was standing to his left, phone in hand, “Finally. Come on, Fabio’s here asking for you.” Then, he looked up behind him, most likely at Damen. Barely a glance.

Of course this was hell. It had to be. 

“Give me a minute.” 

Laurent downed his entire drink in a gulp, the sweetness almost too syropy, and decidedly ignored the grossed out looks Nicaise was giving him before turning back to Damen. 

He almost hiccuped, and wondered if he could summon some kind of force to swallow him whole and spit him somewhere else in the universe. 

Of course he wasn’t that lucky. 

Damen was watching him, still smiling. “A friend?”

“Yeah, I—sorry, I have to go.”

“Don’t be sorry,” _I hate you. You’re always so nice. I can’t breathe._ “Maybe—feel free to say no if you don’t want to, but...would you like to have dinner sometime? To catch up.”

“Yes,” he blurted out, _like an idiot_ , “To catch up.”

The smile on Damen’s face widened, Laurent could smell his cologne, it made him sway a little. “Great, there's a nice place, _Delpha_ , in Via dei Principi.”

Nicaise was tugging at him insistently, ruining the entire charm of the thing, “I know that place.” 

“Tomorrow night?”

“Okay,” he nodded, letting himself be dragged away by Nicaise, “See you then.”

The last he saw was Damen winking, “Can’t wait.” 

He felt himself laughing again and he covered his mouth, Damen waving at him. 

If he hadn’t been almost completely drunk, he wouldn’t have insisted on going outside, Nicaise and Fabio on his heels, as if making sure he didn’t land face first on the floor the moment he stepped out. He needed air. 

It was a starry night of the kind that one rarely saw anymore, the ones poets write so much about. Laurent inhaled, trying to fold his mind back into himself. 

“Lori,” Italian accent, a tenor. “You okay?” Fabio asked, an arm around him.

He considered letting his knees give in under his weight, allowing his limbs to tremble in panic and anticipation, but refrained. More than anything, he just wanted to lay down, let the dreams roll. 

Laurent nodded, “Just tired.”

Smiling, “You drank too much.”

Maybe tomorrow he’d wake up to his same routine. The same sounds and aromas of his everyday, with nothing changed. Nothing more, nothing less. 

He’d met Damen again by chance. 

And that in itself, had been a matter of fate. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! So good to be here again.
> 
> I hope you're all doing okay and that you've had a nice two weeks. I do apologize that my little pause had to be longer than expected, but really I couldn't do much about it, so I hope you can forgive me. Here I present you: Act II. 
> 
> I really don't know what else to say except that I hope you enjoyed this new beginning for our boys, I'm very excited for you to see what I have planned for them! 
> 
> Also, another thing, which is more a disclaimer of sorts: although I've lived in Italy, I have a hard time killing my own darlings so there will be places and scenes in this starting arc of Act II that are going to be very off. Living in other European cities mean my aesthetic is a mess and I took many liberties. But it's easier to say sorry than ask for permission, so there's that. And yes, I did try to give Fabio a less stereotypical Italian name but it was too late to change it when I decided to. 
> 
> Also 1.5, I hope I'm overthinking this but hope it was obvious enough Nicaise is only two years younger than Lo&Mer which means he's about 20yo here. 
> 
> Anygay! Thanks so so so so much to Ellen and demon-friend, my sweethearts, cause I'd be lost without them both. 
> 
> “I still think of you a hundred times a day” & “I still think of you too, if only you knew / I just need to work out some way of getting me to you” & “I just need to know that you're safe, given that I'm miles away” lyrics taken from [Location Unknown](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=flLc6LmAG6c) by HONNE. Bear with me, I know this came out in 2018 and technically this Ch is set in 2012 but I literally don't care. 
> 
> Feedback and comments fully appreciated! You know where to find me: I'm [princesgambit](https://twitter.com/princesgambit) on twitter (where I spend most of my time) and [dearanemone](https://princesgambit.co.vu/) on tumblr.
> 
> Check out Linger's playlist on Spotify [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3xzKQO5iKGl5LmoLbJUxUq?si=SD0-xQXHQy6TuYFZ1NrkUg). 
> 
> See you next week! 
> 
> P.S. Translations from Italian, in order of appearance: 
> 
> \+ Apri questa cazzo di porta o la butto giù a calci! = Open this fucking door or I'll kick it down.  
> \+ Nicaise, porca miseria, lo so che sei lì dentro. = Nicaise, goddamn it, I know you're in there.


	10. Act II: Chapter 9

“Have you ever been to a place and felt that it would be the last time you set a foot there?”

“In what sense?”

“As in...you just know. You know you’ll never be back there, that it is your only chance.”

A pause. 

“I don’t think so. Have you?”

“Constantly. I know there are places I’ll never see again.”

A chuckle. 

“You’re sounding very fatalist.”

“It’s not being pessimistic. It’s more like...a gut feeling.”

“Since when do you follow anything other than logic?”

“Since when do you?”

A minute.

“Don’t be upset.”

“You’re right, it’s silly. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“It’s not silly. I just—never think of it like that. I don’t see today as something I’ll never have again, but something that I’ve lived. Why would you lament something before it’s even over?”

“Because _everything_ will be over.”

“You don’t know that. When I see you, I don’t think of what’ll happen when I’m gone. I’m thinking of...you.”

“And what do you think of me?”

A second.

“That I like you.”

“Is that all?”

“No, it’s not all.”

A smile. 

“We’ll never come here again together.”

“We’ll go other places.”

_I know this will be over._

_I know I will never have you again._

_And I know you do too._

~~A goodbye.~~

A glance. 

“An invitation?”

“A premonition.”

A promise. 

Have you ever met a person and known they’d be the end of you?

***

Laurent woke up feeling odd.

It was the second time he woke up that day. The first time, he was still too immersed in his dreams to pay attention to the attentive italian man leaving his side, kissing his temple and sneaking out of his bedroom as silently as he could. 

But the second time, he came awake at once, as if he had fallen back into his body from a greater, imaginary height. Opening his eyes, he found himself tucked in his own bed in the bedroom he’d slowly made his over the course of a year. A home in a place where he had no one and no one had him. 

He couldn’t remember what he had dreamt about, and so he couldn’t explain the sudden sadness that overcame him. Sadness and a bit of disappointment, for he had the feeling it had been something dearly important. 

And that’s where the oddness began. 

Welcome back, Laurent de Vere. 

He wasn’t as hungover as he thought he’d be, but still he took his time opening back the doors of his shutted mind. He stared at the ceiling longer than he usually would, and heard Nicaise stepping out of his bedroom towards the kitchen.

If Nicaise was awake, it was later than he’d initially thought. And so, Laurent reached over for his glasses, sending down a couple of books left on his nightstand as he did so. Keats and Hemingway respectively. The last one, he’d gladly step on. 

He rose slowly, stretching and trying to feel and crack each bone and muscle in his body. The odd feeling didn’t leave and only seemed to intensify the harder he tried to push it away. 

It wasn’t until he was brushing his teeth that his mind wandered to the night before and — Damen. His Damen. 

_Never mine._

He had to pause for a good, long minute, feeling slightly ill at the memory and the beginning of a headache forming on each side of his head. He had been drunk but he hadn’t said anything embarrassing, or so he thought. 

Ironically, Damen had invited him to dinner. Even more ironically, he had agreed.

And that’s when his mind left him completely. 

He looked at himself in the mirror for a split second, not recognizing the face he saw there, and then spit in the sink. The last time he’d felt this was the day after Auguste’s death. It was worse than feeling any pain or even numbness. It was like floating inside his mind but not being able to grasp a hint of reality. 

He knew reality, he _knew_ things. And yet he couldn’t think of them. Couldn’t analyze them, voice them. Make them _real_. 

Triggered by a strange gap in his life. Death, then grief and self-destructive tendencies through university. Then Italy, and another person. Another Laurent, who didn’t suffer the death of his older brother. Another Laurent, born from the one he had buried that day back in august when he’d tell Damen he should have died instead. 

The words echoed all through his mind and ears and the bathroom and the apartment and his entire world. 

_It should have been you._

It wasn’t that he had never expected to see Damen again, but he wasn’t prepared to find him _here_. He wasn’t prepared to feel so much regret and guilt again. 

He’d probably cursed the day Damen was born at least a thousand times. He’d thought he had lost everything and gained nothing — only heartbreak. And panic attacks and vices. 

And then he’d traded that for the chance to travel to another continent and be a different person and Damen showed up as a reminder of his constant failures and misdoings. 

He’d never apologized. He never checked up on him, he’d never….

But how many times did he wish he had? How many nights did he lay awake choking on his own anxiety, trying to convince himself that there was nothing he could do to fix it? Because Auguste wasn’t coming back so maybe Damen also shouldn’t.

Maybe Damen also _wouldn’t_. 

How many nights did he get drunk and smoked alone and fucked someone trying to get away from his own head? From his own shame? 

_You claimed to have loved a boy who never did anything wrong, whose best friend was dead and who had been lucky to be alive, but you put all the weight of Auguste’s death on his shoulders as if that would have spared you from it._

_As if you wouldn’t have been equally guilty in your own eyes._

Laurent left the bathroom, making his way to the kitchen but not really thinking of it. Nicaise had made tea instead of coffee and had laid out a spread of brioche bread with jams and biscuits. If he wasn’t having an existential crisis, he’d probably rolled eyes at the _bloody_ afternoon tea setting. 

“Morning,” Nicaise said, typing something on his phone as he did so, “We’re out of coffee.”

“I’ll buy some later,” he mumbled, sitting down and reaching for whatever edible thing he could find. He grabbed a brioche bun and opened it, spreading apricot jam over it again and again and again.

He wasn’t even hungry, but he wanted a task to keep his hands from trembling. Because he knew they’d start, and then it would go havoc from there. 

Nicaise didn’t seem to notice his distress, so perhaps he’d gotten better at this game of ruining himself slowly and quietly. Behind a cup of tea, he asked, “Where’s your loverboy?”

There was a hole in the middle of his head. A hole. Not a real hole, more like an empty space where all his thoughts and words were going. “He had to leave early.” 

Fabio. He belonged to another life. Another person. Someone who wasn’t as cruel as he could be when things got ugly. 

What do I do now? 

What could one he do now that the gap between his past and present had closed? When they had merged as one, and all he knew was clashing, fighting for a single truth?

_Fuck if I know._

_Fuck._

He ate the brioche bun slowly, a small bite at a time, forcing himself to chew and swallow it down. It landed painfully in his stomach. How he wished he could scream. 

“What is it?” Nicaise asked. Laurent looked up from his hands then, setting the bun on his plate. He was frowning, his phone left abandoned on the table. “Still hungover?”

 _No._ “Yeah.”

“You should have a cup of tea, that’ll help.” And then, when he didn’t reply, “Want me to pour you some?” And then, a bit more impatiently, “Over your head?”

“Sorry,” Laurent said, snapping out of a looping cycle of dread and misery. He accepted the cup Nicaise offered, then took a sip, staring into the Nothingness ahead. 

“Okay,” Nicaise said, “What is actually going on? Are you still worried about Aimeric?”

Aimeric. He’d forgotten—oh, he was a terrible friend. A terrible person, overall. 

“It’s—yes.”

“You’re being extremely difficult.”

“It’s too early for this, Nic. Give me until noon.” 

Bitterly, he thought, _Only dumb people are brilliant at breakfast._

“It is already noon, you twat.”

“Then give me til dinner.”

_Give me a lifetime._

_Give me a new head, a new heart._

_And a new pair of lungs._

“You’ll be fine,” Nicaise said, a hand on his back, a little awkwardly, as if he didn’t know what he was doing, “Nerd.”

Laurent smiled then. A sad smile, a small one, but a smile nonetheless. 

Nicaise wasn’t one to initiate any physical touch, and the fact that he was trying to comfort him was enough to pull Laurent out of his little glass of water. 

He couldn’t change the past. He couldn’t take the words back. He couldn’t stop his inner world from collapsing with his every breath. 

And he couldn’t hide forever. 

_One day_ , he’d thought, for years on end. 

_One day, that boy will love me back._

_One day, Auguste will be back._

_One day, I will meet my dad._

_One day, I’ll run out of tears to cry._

_One day, I’ll apologize._

_One day, I’ll find him again._

One day…

_Today._

***

Laurent de Vere lay on the floor of his apartment’s balcony in Italy and thought a bit about life. 

It was a Saturday and he had nothing to do and nowhere to be. _A simple little kind of free._ So he lay down on a cushion he’d stolen from the living room, with a bowl of coconut bits by his side that he occasionally reached for and listened to one of the many long playlists on his iPod. 

He was so far away from the place he once belonged to, he wondered if it had always been meant that way, or if he had changed the course a little bit. 

When he was younger, he liked to believe things happened because they were predestined to be. But there was so much cruelty in fate it almost seemed a human skill to fuck things up in irreparable ways. 

Chaos theory and scenes gone wrong and no amount of time travelling that could fix it. 

And then...things like these happened. He met the person he had both loved most and hurt most in the entire world almost by accident. A meet-cute written for movies; a twist of the plot. 

Or a slap on the face. A punch to his guts. 

Innocently, shamefully, he asked himself if he should even go to that dinner. He’d said yes because he had not been brave enough to say no. Because he’d been under the shadow of a beautiful man ~~he still couldn’t forget.~~

A man he’d cried for just as much as he’d cried for Auguste. In a way, he’d lost both of them hadn’t he? 

In a way, he’d lost everything, hadn’t he?

So what if he could have something back, for once? What if it wasn’t because he owed Damen some kind of apology —that he did— but because he was being selfish enough to have him again, if only for one night. 

For one moment, a minute, a second, a single scene in the movie they were playing at. 

Laurent was driven further by longing than guilt. He wanted to see Damen again. Selfishly, arrogantly, as if it was his place to decide such a thing. Even after everything, he was still the same selfish boy he had once been. 

A selfish child with nothing to lose but a choice in his hand. A carousel box. 

Was this how they made peace? 

Without meaning to, his mind went back to that pool and their night of impossibilities. Their little shelter built on daydreams and songs and a game. 

His last moment of true happiness had been with Damen, so how could he hate him? Back then he’d been so unaware of how fragile happiness was. How easy to shy away. How easy to bury alive and bitterly watch it die. 

So what if he was selfish?

What if this time, he refused to let someone go from his side again? 

What if?

Laurent closed his eyes, inhaled, exhaled, then opened them again and sat up. He sounded crazy and the sun was making him sleepy. He should have gone for a book rather than music; music was always a dangerous thing. 

He opened up to it like a journal and spilled out all of his secrets, even if only to himself. He didn’t need that, he wasn’t really agreeable to his own mind most of the time. 

Getting up, he went inside and immediately felt cooler, the fan that Nicaise kept on while doing yoga hitting him straight on the face. 

For a full minute, all Laurent could do was stare at the scene displayed in front of him, getting a strange feeling of dejavu. 

Nicaise was in an all white linen outfit, his body folding in and out in the strangest positions not even his mind could have fanthomed. Still, the weirdest part was all the... stuff; the bamboo mat underneath Nicaise’s feet and the incense making his nose prickle. There was a golden bowl with a tiny wooden hammer next to a bunch of aligned crystals, and Laurent had a hard time remembering he was supposed to just be doing yoga and not invoking some kind of old pagan god. 

“You’re so fucking weird,” Laurent mumbled under his breath.

“You should try some stretching,” Nicaise said, unfolding in front of him, “Going to Tibet changed my life.”

“Not even Jord was this ridiculous with yoga,” he said. Which meant something because Jord was a jock through and through and there was nothing non-ridiculous about his sporty manners. 

Sneering, “Go big or go home, mate.”

And because Laurent was Laurent, and there was nothing non-mischievous about him, he waited for Nicaise to stand up again, balancing on one leg, before kicking him quickly and walking past him to the kitchen. 

He heard Nicaise swearing after him, and the moment he emerged with a glass of water, he was greeted by a crystal aimed at his head. 

Laurent ducked, years of practice with Aimeric polishing his reflexes, “Rude.” 

Nicaise glared at him, “Shithead.”

Their bickering was however interrupted by both of their phones going off; a notification on their group chat from Jord.

_J: guys!! skype??? it’s important_

By the time they both joined, sitting side by side on the couch with Laurent’s laptop on the coffee table, Aimeric was already on the call. Laurent couldn’t tell whether he looked better or worse, but the knot in his throat pulsed with worry and he tried his best to ignore it. 

_There’s nothing you can do if he won’t tell you anything._

~~Was this how Auguste had felt, too?~~

Jord, on the other hand, was smiling the brightest he’d ever seen him. There were no greetings or pleasantries, instead he went straight to the point. 

“Guys,” he said, “I’m getting married.”

***

The call wasn’t long, as Jord had things to do but couldn’t wait too long before telling them the news; his boyfriend had proposed the day before, and then they’d celebrated together. 

He then admitted, a bit apologetically, that he had told Aimeric already. He didn’t need to explain why, for they all already knew Aimeric had always been the closest to him. Ever since Laurent had introduced them, there was a mutual connection. Everyone saw it, everyone kept quiet about it. 

That wasn’t the whole truth.

As a small group of four, there were only so many things they could hide from each other. Usually, they didn’t even try to—they’d grown too close in a short span of time that sometimes they acted more like siblings than just friends. They definitely saw each other more than they ever saw their families. 

Nevertheless, the whole truth was that Aimeric was in love with Jord, and had been for a good while now. Years. And it had been the elephant in the room for as long as Laurent and Nicaise could tell. 

Now he was here, in Italy, an ocean away from Marlas, and Aimeric looked like he’d be ill on the other side of the screen. He’d remained awfully quiet for the entire exchange except for when he announced he’d not only be making the wedding cake, but he’d also plan the entire event. 

Which could only be translated as Aimeric grabbing the very same knife Jord had stabbed his heart with and driven it back into his own chest in an act of self-flagellation. 

Less dramatic ~~and gorey~~ , of course, but with the same intensity. 

After Jord had dropped the call, an awkward silence befell them.No one said anything for a minute, and still Laurent could feel Nicaise’s tension turning to anger with every second that passed without a word. 

“Mer,” Laurent spoke at last, “Are you okay?”

Aimeric smiled that bitter smile of his. He wasn’t in bed anymore but at his desk, the bedroom behind him showered in the morning sun. It looked almost wrong, it was obvious now Aimeric had been crying. “Sure, why wouldn’t I be?”

“That's why you were acting strange the other day.” It wasn’t a question more than an assumption, and yet it sounded accusatory enough he almost cringed.

Still, Aimeric said, “He called me right after it happened.”

“You can't plan his wedding, Aimeric,” Nicaise said then, “That's...too much”

Aimeric looked away, grabbed one of the curls near his right ear and played with it, pulling and tugging in a way that wasn’t entirely harmless. “He asked me, what else could I do?”

“You could have said _no_ and told him to hire a fucking wedding planner.”

Laurent sighed, “Nicaise—” 

“Honestly,” Aimeric started, “It's my fault. I offered to make the cake and the desserts, then one thing led to another and he—” He swallowed, “He asked _me_.”

“And you said yes,” Nicaise scoffed, “You don't have to do this. You do know it will wreck you, right?” 

Laurent gave Nicaise a look before turning his attention back to the screen, “Are you sure you can do this? We're not there to help.”

“I'll be fine. I want to give him this.” And then, a little solemnly, “It'll be my wedding present.”

“Listen,” he started, although he knew he was being both silly and unfair, “If at some point you feel like you can't do it, you can walk away from it.”

“You know I won't do that,” Aimeric said, sadly, “Walking out of his wedding? That wouldn't be fair to him.”

Nicaise laughed mockingly, “And you think this is fair to yourself?”

“If Jord knew,” Laurent said, “He wouldn't let you do it.”

Aimeric swallowed, then closed his eyes as he spoke, “He'll never know,” softly, his voice breaking, “That's why I have to.”

In a swift movement, Nicaise closed the laptop, ending the call. He was breathing heavily, as if his entire composure depended on steady breaths. It probably did. “I don't get him,” he said, “What is he getting out of this?”

Laurent took off his glasses, pressing his palms to his eyes softly, “Closure?”

“Nonsense! He's dragging this out for himself, it's ridiculous.”

“Come on, Nic, I know you never agreed with Aimeric's feelings for Jord.”

Too quickly, “No, I don't.” And then, a bit calmer, “Jord is a good man, he's kind and sweet, I get that. But Aimeric is only pinning after him bc Jord is the kind of guy Aimeric thinks he's not.” When Laurent didn’t reply, Nicaise continued, softer this time, “Aimeric is also kind and sweet, in his own way. He deserves someone who sees him like that and loves him for everything else.”

“Even if that’s true,” And it was, “You can’t blame Aimeric for not seeing the signs. It’s hard to be in love with someone...alone.” ~~_Oh and wouldn’t you know about that, Laurent?_ ~~ “You getting angry is not going to help him.”

“The signs were right there!” Nicaise said, exasperated. He pulled a cigarettes box from his pocket and stood up, fumbling to get a lighter in between his yoga trinkets, “He was trying to change himself to be what Jord wants. You can easily tell that Aimeric is self-conscious around Jord about who he is and what he does, pretending to be some naive virgin when he's not.”

Laurent knew this. He agreed. And yet he felt like if he told that to Aimeric, he’d only become the epitome of a hypocrite. Liar, selfish, bad friend, terrible son, even worse brother, _hypocrite._ The list could go on and on.

Cigarette lit in hand, Nicaise watched him closely, ”I thought you’d be angrier than this. You can't be compliant with his self-destructive impulses.”

“I’m worried Nic, not angry.”

He longed for a cigarette as much as he longed for a drink. If that didn’t say enough about his current emotions, there was not enough amount of disastrous, tormentous ~~_indigestible_ ~~ Hemingway that could portray him better. 

“Too bad,” Nicaise said, taking a long drag, “You can be both.”

“He already made his decision—”

Interrupting, “A stupid one.”

“—And the only thing we can do is support him.”

“’I’m not condoning his actions.”

“I didn't say _condone_ ,” Laurent retorted, “I said _support_ , which doesn't necessarily mean you need to agree wholeheartedly.”

With his glasses back on, he watched Nicaise move to the balcony to smoke, muttering under his breath. ‘ _Bloody hell.’_ and _‘Fucking linguist.’_

“Well,” Nicaise called after a while, “Aimeric is giving them his sanity. I need to look for something equally great for their engagement present. What is it that they liked to do together? Athletic things? Maybe I can find some backpacking tours in Spain.”

It was too early for this, Laurent thought, and not late enough to go to bed. 

As he stepped into the balcony, Nicaise turned to him, “When are you meeting that hottie from yesterday anyway?”

Puzzled, “How do you know about that?”

“I was there?” Nicaise said, matter-of-factly, “When he asked you out?”

He felt his blood pressure lower dangerously. 

Well of course he was there.

_Shit._

“Is he why you were so moody this morning?”

“I wasn't moody.”

“You’re a terrible liar, darling.”

He needed to get a hold of himself. He needed to—get ready. He was meeting Damen.

He hadn’t been able to tell Aimeric. 

The past twenty four hours had left him in a sort of haze he wasn’t sure how to get out of. Sure, the drinking didn’t help, but it seemed as though too many things had happened at once and he needed a moment to collect himself.

~~_Maybe a couple years to catch up._ ~~

Aimeric was in pain, Nicaise was being insufferable as per usual, Jord was getting married, Italy was so hot he was getting to his own melting point, Damen was here. 

What was he even going to wear? What was he going to say?

What was he even going to eat? His stomach was already tying itself into knots, he doubted he could manage to eat anything. 

“Fuck.” He said, out loud, walking to his bedroom and throwing open the doors of his closet, “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

Nicaise followed him, having discarded his cigarette, “Laurent.”

“Not right now, Nicaise.”

“Are you okay?”

_Do I look like I have ever been okay?_

He didn’t say that. Instead, he sighed, “No, I’m not okay. He told me the place but not the time. How the fuck am I supposed to know when are we meeting?”

“If it’s dinner then it’s probably at seven,” Nicaise shrugged, “It’s a tacit rule.”

“Between who? Never mind, you don’t know any normal people.”

Amused, Nicaise sat on his bed, leg crossed over the other, “Who is this guy anyway? I haven't seen you this nervous, ever.”

He lied, “He’s...someone from work.”

“Bullshit. You never care about your appearance. Spill.”

_He’s just my old childhood crush slash best friend slash Auguste’s former best friend slash the person I accused of having killed my brother the same night he’d had a car accident slash my first kiss slash someone who should hate me slash someone I’ve missed so much the pain of it almost crushed me._

_Someone who likes flowers._

_Someone I played a game with once._

_My neighbour?_

“He’s just an old friend.”

“Is that so,” Nicaise hummed, “Just wear the khaki trousers and the black button down, then.” 

Under Nicaise’s guidance, he took a very necessary shower and sprayed some of his favourite cologne— ~~The one Fabio kept complimenting each time he wore it.~~ —on his pulse points. Then he dressed, his fingers shaking trying to do all the buttons of his long dress shirt. He opted for the same earrings of the night before, the dangling golden ones and slid on the flat golden circle rings he’d recently taken a liking to. They made his fingers look slender, or something like that. 

He combed his hair back in front of the mirror, then bit his lip as he spun to face Nicaise, lazing on his bed and skimming through one of his books, “How do I look?”

Eyeing him up and down, Nicaise said, “If he met you before he knows you dress like trash. This is an improvement, I would say.” He grinned as Laurent glared at him, “Take a cab, though, a helmet would mess up your pretty hair.” 

***

Damen was outside, waiting for him.

He was still inside the cab when he spotted him, looking like someone one would meet in a dream. Clean-shaved, his perfectly-styled hair being messed up by the occasional evening breeze. Slightly more dressed up than Laurent in navy blue pants and a white dress shirt underneath a gray leather jacket. 

As always, Damen looked nothing but astonishingly handsome and Laurent’s heart simply stopped beating. _Nope, can’t do today. We can’t._

Regardless of his raising fear, he paid the driver and stepped out, Damen spotting him immediately and smiling. He did his best to avoid meeting his gaze until he was right in front of him. A few inches short — that seemed to never change. 

“Hey,” he said, feeling breathless for no reason. _~~One reason.~~ _“Am I late?”

Damen shook his head a little, “No—you’re good,” a grin, ~~_like the sun_ ~~ ~~,~~ “And you look good too.”

_Oh God._

He felt himself blush a little, “Thanks,” a bit unsure of himself, “You look good, too.” 

“Shall we?” 

He nodded, stepping inside with Damen right behind him. He announced their presence to the person by the door, words about a reservation under his name in perfect, fluent Italian and Laurent felt both delighted and annoyed at how charming Damen was even in an entirely different language. 

They were taken to a table in a private corner of the terrace. It wasn’t fully dark yet, but somehow he hoped they’d be able to see the stars. 

In his head, Clementine would say, _What a foolish boy._

The restaurant was beautiful, decorated to a minimal but still enough that it felt luxurious. There were plants everywhere and huge vases with summer flowers scenting every space. 

The view was the best though; the ocean waves orchestrating their own neverending rhythm, sending their way a pleasant breeze that wasn’t cold but still refreshing the day’s remnants of summer damp. 

All they did for the first few minutes was smile and read the menu, each reserved to their own thoughts. Laurent tried to focus on the main dishes and the list of drinks, occasionally looking up to steal a glance of the man in front of him. 

His long eyelashes. His constellation-lined moles. The bridge of his nose. The tan of his dark skin that seemed to glow and never burn. 

He wanted to reach out and trace the lines of his features. Memorize them by touch, since sight alone never seemed to be enough. 

_Oh God._

Probably feeling his gaze, Damen looked up and he hated himself for what seemed an endless millisecond. Damen didn’t notice his stress, instead straightened and asked, all easy politeness that they’d never shared before, “How are you? How was your day?”

Laurent sighed in his head. A second too late, he said, “I’m...fine. It was a strange day. How about you?”

Smiling, “I'm good,” then a bit shyly, “So happy to see you.” 

_He’s happy to see me._

“So...glass or bottle?”

_He’s happy to see me._

_He’s—_

“Laurent?”

“Sorry,” he said, snapping out of it, “Yes?”

Damen seemed like he was trying very hard not to laugh, “Are you going by the glass or should we share a bottle?”

“Bottle.” He needed all the help he could get. 

Damen gestured to the waiter who came promptly, serving each a glass of water and leaving the jug on the table. Laurent had the pleasure to watch Damen order the wine and a cheese platter for starters, fluidly, completely accentless and he fought the urge to punch him. 

Was there anything Damen was bad at, besides being imperfect?

When the waiter was gone, Laurent took a sip of his water, “I didn't know you spoke Italian.”

_I still don’t know so many things._

“I took some classes and I've been here before, for vacations mostly.”

Caring, and sweet. Charming and smart. Funny. Brave and strong. So kind to everyone, level headed, never one to rush into things.

So goddamn beautiful. Sitting there, pouring him a glass of wine, asking about his day and his life as if Laurent had never said unforgivable things four years prior. 

As if he hadn’t pushed him away for more than was needed and prayed to never see him again for fear of an altercation that ended not happening. 

Good at languages. 

Smiling like the sun. Like the sun after a long, dark night of grief and tears, Damen came back to him. It made no sense, and yet somehow it did. That this is how they met again.

This is how they found each other again, as if the time was finally right and proper and the only thing they had to do was share a meal and talk and find the closed doors to each other’s hearts. 

They’d grown up together and then became strangers. What would become of them now?

Damen took a few of the kettle cooked crisps to his mouth, “How’s your Italian?”

_Bad._

“It’s…” he trailed off, spreading cheese on a cracker, “Improving.” 

Chuckling, “Is it _that_ bad?”

He couldn’t help but smile, although he tried not to, “Shut up.” And then, defensively, “I get by, my coworkers speak English so it's fine.” 

“You're clever,” Damen said, in a way that sounded awfully familiar, “You know how to get your point across.”

Familiar, why was it so familiar? In another life, Laurent would have said, “ _What, is that a dare?”_ The box would have been in his hands, he’d passed it under the table. They’d be smirking in complicity, in mischief. 

Now he wasn’t sure they’d ever play the game again. He wasn’t sure he wanted it to matter as much as it did to him; the lack of it. 

Instead Laurent said, “How long have you been here?”

“Not long, a couple weeks at most. And you've been here for…?”

“A year now, although it doesn't seem that long.”

He hadn’t been back for the summer or Christmas or Easter or anything at all. He’d stayed there, sometimes grateful for having Nicaise and sometimes resentful. He hadn’t seen his mom or Aimeric in a year. He hadn’t gone to Auguste’s grave in a bit longer than that. 

He wasn’t sure he ever wanted to go back. Every time he thought of it, he felt a pang of guilt, heavily pressing on his heart. 

Would it be so bad if he just never went back? 

In the background, a soft song started to play. It seemed almost too fitting and he wanted to roll his eyes at how pompous it made everything seem, but the lyrics stopped him. 

It was jazz, from the sixties, although he was sure the particular song was way older than that. At least thirty years or so. 

_If I should lose you_

_The stars would fall from the sky_

“Do you know this one?” Damen asked. He was also listening. 

Back to the games they played.

Laurent felt himself smile slowly, “I think so, but I haven’t got it quite yet.”

_The leaves would wither and die_

“It sounds like—”

“Nina Simone,” Laurent said, nodding, “I think it’s her.”

“It’s such a sad song,” Damen said, pouring himself another glass of wine. The one they’d chosen; a red Valpolicella, was way too easy to drink, in spite of being dry. It was bright and fruity and made his insides loosen up a little. “How come you always know all the sad ones?”

Dramatically, Laurent sighed, brushing his hair back, then looked him straight in the eye, “Well I suppose I’m just a very sad person.”

Two seconds later, Damen busted out laughing. Laurent couldn’t help but follow, laughter bubbling out from him as easy as the crashing of the waves next to them. 

_With you beside me_

_No wind in winter would blow_

Oh but this is how it used to be, wasn’t it? This is what he’d been missing for so long. This laughter. This illogical feeling of having a person understand you perfectly, so much that they could almost see through you. 

It was supposed to feel like this; warm and light, funny without a reason, tragically corny with an old song playing as their soundtrack. 

_With you beside me_

_A rose would bloom in the snow_

It was supposed to be Damen all along, wasn’t he? 

“I’m sorry,” Damen said, gasping for air, “I shouldn’t be laughing like this. It’s not what you said, it’s—”

“How I said it, I know. Why not laugh, though?” Laurent shrugged, bringing the wine to his lips, “I mean we’ve always been terrible people laughing at others’ misfortunes.” Then, he suppressed laughter, “Or causing them.”

“Oh God, we were terrible, weren’t we? Playing that game.”

He missed it. He missed everything. He was a sad person, but he didn’t blame anyone for that. And when his mind went immediately to Auguste, he pushed those thoughts away. 

For a minute only, he wanted to laugh, and pretend nothing happened. He was a terrible person. Always had been. 

But Damen…

Damen he’d always spare. He was so noble, he knew his laughter was more relief and nervousness than any sardonic feeling he could have, if he was even capable of having those. 

Damen was a good person. Auguste had loved him so much. 

~~He loved them both so much.~~

“Horrible,” Laurent smiled. It hurt in places that he didn’t want to remember he had. “I miss it, sometimes.”

To his surprise, Damen nodded in agreement. Softly, “Me too.”

After that, they ordered. Laurent went for risotto, while Damen preferred gnocchi, and he made sure Damen ordered the type he liked so he could steal bites from him too. 

The tension had somehow broken, although they still seemed to tiptoe around certain things; words, glances, they didn’t want to go there. 

_We have tonight,_ Laurent thought. _So let us have this._

_Let us laugh together again._

_Let it linger._

For the rest of the night, they just talked. It flowed easily after a whole bottle of wine and sharing each other’s food, too much after a second bottle and dessert on the table. 

Laurent wanted to know what he’d been doing; he wanted to know about his job and his travelling and his gardening. Damen worked at his father’s publicity agency still and was in Italy closing a deal with several clients. He presumed his father wanted to promote him since he’d sent him to do the job and not Kastor. 

He also spoke the local language, Kastor didn’t. 

His parents were good, but he didn’t have much time for gardening nowadays. His balcony was filled with plants, though, and he made sure to hire someone to water them while he was gone. 

“What about you?” Damen asked, then, carefully, “How’s your mom?”

Laurent stopped for a second. He wasn’t sure how to even respond. “She's good,” at last, “She got a new haircut.”

_Great._

He was glad when Damen then changed the topics and asked about his masters. “ _Oh, well, that’s a long story.”_ But Damen didn’t care, and so he told him everything. He told him about how they’d met Nicaise in college. _“He was in one of Aimeric’s classes and they were overly competitive with each other. But Nicaise is kind of a prodigy, a genius, which only makes me want to kick him more.”_

Damen laughed, “He sounds like a character.”

He’d told him how he’d decided to go into publishing like his dad, and how he’d gotten the chance to come to Italy to do it. He told him about the small publishing company where he was doing his summer internship and how he’d learnt to ride one of those colourful movie-like scooters because Nicaise had almost challenged him to. 

And that he was good. Overall, he was good. And he was glad Damen was good too. 

“I do miss Clementine, though,” he said, stealing part of Damen’s cake. It was their second dessert.

“She probably misses you like crazy,” Damen said, taking cake to his mouth, “I feel for her.”

Laurent chuckled. _The damn wine_. “Have you missed me like crazy?”

“Would I sound too sappy if I said yes?”

“Yes.”

Leaning back, “Then I rest my case,” he gestured as if he was zipping shut his mouth.

If Laurent hadn’t been so drunk, again, he’d probably die of embarrassment. He’d probably try to run away from this feeling. From this ache that overcame him, bone by bone, joint by joint. 

From this want. 

It was terrifying. 

But the words kept playing in his head. Nina Simone had sung them well, in a way that was agonizing and still beautiful. 

And he knew then, he was ruined. For the rest of his damn life. 

_And living would seem in vain_

_If I lost you_

***

It was way past midnight when they’d left the restaurant and Damen had offered to walk him home. 

He insisted it wasn’t necessary, but Damen wouldn’t listen to reason. And deep inside he wanted to extend their evening for as long as he could. 

The city centre was still full of people, but as they walked further away into the residential neighbourhoods, the quieter it became. The cobblestone streets leading to his apartment building were completely empty, and although they were drunk out of their minds, they kept quiet; content with each other’s silent company, their hands brushing occasionally as they walked. 

It was another starry night, just as he had hoped for. The heat from the afternoon had receded considerably, instead replaced by a cool breeze that made him shiver in his dress shirt. He’d thought of a jacket to be unnecessary, but now he was regretting it. 

Damen touched his elbow softly, “Are you cold?” 

Laurent, arms wrapped around himself, “A little.”

“Take this.” 

Laurent stopped as Damen took off his jacket and offered it to him. He stared at it for a second, his brain forgetting completely how to function like a normal human being. “Are you sure?” he blurted out, “We aren’t that far anyway, I can make it.”

Nodding, “I’m sure. You’ve always been sensitive to the cold.”

His mind went to a poem, almost like a chant, _And I have a thing for hurting you._

Blinking, Laurent took the jacket and put it on. It was a bit too large, like it's always been, but it was warm and smelled so much of Damen he could drown in it. His heart was beating oddly.

Was it possible to have a heart attack at twenty-two?

Simply, hoping Damen wouldn’t notice the way the heat was rising to his already flustered cheeks, “Thanks.” 

They walked a bit more, stealing glances and smiling, but saying nothing else until they reached his building. It was old, but the apartments had been recently renovated. The only downside was not having an elevator, and the stairs were insufferable when he was drunk, tired and on the verge of a heart attack like he was now. 

“So...this is me.” he said, feeling a bit foolish. 

“Goodnight,” Damen said, quietly, standing right in front of him, “Thanks for accepting my invitation.”

Laurent shook his head a bit, smiling as he did so, “I had a great time. I’m happy you suggested it.”

As he went to take off the jacket, though, oddly enough Damen confused the gesture for a hug. He wasn’t sure how, except well, _the damn wine._ Still, he didn’t resist. Damen hugged him and Laurent wrapped his arms around his back. It felt too good. 

He considered asking Damen to stay. Nicaise be damned. 

Damen pulled away a little, smiled as he brushed that one stubborn curl that always found his way back to Laurent’s face, no matter how much he tried to comb it back. 

“Doesn’t it hurt to smile so much all the time?” Laurent murmured.

Chuckling, “Is that your excuse for your excessive pouting?”

“I don’t pout.”

“Yes you do, you’re doing it now.”

Laurent felt himself pouting, then stopped. “Shit.”

Again, they laughed. It was so silly—

“You pierced your ears,” Damen said, leaning closer, cupping his face and brushing his golden locks behind his ears to get a better look of the earrings there. “They suit you.”

Laurent swallowed. He felt like a teenager, having a crisis over such a compliment. He could feel his pulse in every part of his body, and the only thing keeping him somewhat grounded was Damen’s hand still on his face. 

He was going to die. 

_If I died tonight_

_Would you hold my hand?_

“Thank you,” was all he managed. 

Damen reached out for his hand next. “And I noticed…” he said, rubbing a thumb over the rings on each of his fingers, “You like jewelry now.”

“The rings especially,” Laurent mentioned too casually for the current state of his sanity, “They’re great for hitting people.”

Laughing, “Still getting in fights?”

He looked down, hiding his smile, “You know me, always the troublemaker.”

Fondly, “I do know.”

They’d known once, hadn’t they?

They’d been friends. They’d been…

No. Laurent had fallen in love alone. He was infatuated. He was a stupid teenager looking for something that never existed. 

But they were so close now. So close they could feel each other’s breathing. So close that Laurent was leaning into Damen’s gentle touch. He yearned for it so much he made a mental note to reprimand himself for being so weak. 

_You’ve been through this once._

_You promised yourself you wouldn’t let it happen again._

_This was to never happen again. Not with Damen nor with anyone else._

_What the fuck are you doing?_

He’d yearned for it too long. His touch and ultimately also his forgiveness. But he’d never ask for neither. 

Maybe this was all he could ever have. 

“Goodbye then,” he whispered. 

A hand on his cheek, “Goodbye”

“Will you be fine walking back?”

“I’ll just take a cab.”

A little nod, “Okay.”

“You have my number. Will you call me?”

“Yes, of course.”

Damen leaned over to kiss his cheek, and laughed a little as he pulled away, “Sorry, it’s the habitude.”

“It’s okay.” 

_Stay_. 

Stepping aside, Damen walked down the small stairs leading to the entryway. “Thank you again, for tonight.”

_Thank you for coming back._

_Thank you for finding me._

_Thank you. Thank you._

_Sorry._

_Thank you._

After waving each other goodbye, Laurent rushed up the stairs, entering the apartment as fast as he could and running to the balcony, trying to get one last look at the man hailing a cab in the dark. 

He smiled. His head swarmed, and he dropped his keys and had a hard time taking off his shoes before letting himself fall fully dressed on his bed. 

Still, he smiled. 

Oddly enough, it had felt like a first date. 

Oddly enough, he reached under his bed, bringing the carousel box back up after what seemed to be an eternity without holding it in his hands.

Oddly enough, he fell asleep clutching it to his chest, as if no time had ever passed at all.

***

The following morning, Laurent woke up with a headache and Nicaise sitting on his bed, waiting, like a cat. 

He groaned, “What the fuck, Nicaise?”

“Tell me everything.”

“I don’t remember what that word means.”

“Come on. Coffee and painkillers for your thoughts.”

Laurent sighed, rubbing his eyes a little, “I don’t know what you want me to say. We just had dinner and talked.”

“You arrived home at three in the morning drunk out of your mind and you want me to eat that crap?”

In spite of the pain and the annoying existence of Nicaise, he felt himself smiling. It’d been a too perfect night. Too perfect to ever share with anyone else. 

“We just caught up with everything. It's been a while since we last saw each other.”

Insistently, “Did you kiss him?”

“No.”

“Did you want to?”

“...Yes?”

“I knew it,” Nicaise said, laying down next to him, “You're such a romantic. It’s disgusting.”

“No more disgusting than your harem of hysterical lovers.”

Nicaise laughed, and so he laughed too. 

And he realized then, he was still wearing the jacket. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi hello! How are you guys? I hope you've had a great week! 
> 
> Sorry this chapter is a tiny bit late, I had quite a hectic day so! I do hope you enjoyed it, nonetheless. Nothing much to say other than I'm ever so thankful about how sweet and kind you have been to me. You were when I was writing Étude and you continue to be to this day. You're all so important and I treasure each and every one of you who read my words. 
> 
> Also special thanks to Ellen for betaing and demon-friend for all the help brainstorming and fangirling over our own ideas. It's all so much better with you both! 
> 
> "Only dumb people are brilliant at breakfast." quote by Oscar Wilde. 
> 
> “A simple little kind of free.” lyrics taken from [Perfectly Lonely](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KoLc_6BmyTc) by John Mayer. 
> 
> “If I should lose you / The stars would fall from the sky" & "The leaves would wither and die" & "With you beside me / No wind in winter would blow / With you beside me / A rose would bloom in the snow" & "And living would seem in vain / If I lost you" lyrics taken from [If I Should Lose You](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D_FEhxMmSNE) covered by Nina Simone. 
> 
> “If I died tonight / Would you hold my hand?” lyrics taken from [Everything I Said](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=REyCNFYlG_0) by The Cranberries. 
> 
> Feedback and comments fully appreciated! You know where to find me: I'm [princesgambit](https://twitter.com/princesgambit) on twitter (where I spend most of my time) and [dearanemone](https://princesgambit.co.vu/) on tumblr.
> 
> Check out Linger's playlist on Spotify [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3xzKQO5iKGl5LmoLbJUxUq?si=SD0-xQXHQy6TuYFZ1NrkUg). 
> 
> See you next weekend!


	11. Act II: Chapter 10

_So what if I disappeared?_

_Would you look for me?_

_What if I just left?_

_Would you care?_

~~_Please don’t go._ ~~

_What if I told you you’ll never see me again?_

_And there were no goodbyes, no warning signs._

_I ~~f you walk away, I won’t go after you.~~ _

_What if I died today?_

_Would you hold my hand?_

_Would you ask me to stay, just a bit longer?_

~~_If you leave me here, I let you go._ ~~

_Would you offer me your jacket?_

_Would you tell me you love me? And offer me the world, the stars, everything up above and down below?_

~~_But please don’t go._ ~~

_Would you cry and kiss me and hold me dearly?_

~~_Hold me, like a letter in your hand. Like a plea, a petition, a kind of prayer._ ~~

_Or would you walk away?_

~~_And come back to me._ ~~

***

In the Twelfth Night, Shakespeare said, “ _Journeys end in lovers meeting._ ” 

He’d never properly read Shakespeare until he was in college and not by requirement but out of curiosity. He’d enjoyed the tragedies, the despair, the dramatic twists of the mundane, even the comedies. And yet, at the end of each and every play and poem, Laurent always liked _Twelfth Night_ the best. More than _The Tempest_ , which had been close to a favourite. More than _King Lear_ and _Hamlet_. 

He liked those twists of fate. The silliness of the absurd and otherwise impossible. And that it all ends upon two halves of the same soul meeting at last. 

Wasn’t that what he’d wanted once? A story that ended, at last, in another beginning? 

The first time he’d read those words, he’d stopped, his heart aching with loss. He’d read them over so many times, as if trying to wear off the effect they had on him, so that he’d never feel it again. 

And he never did, until he met Fabio. 

Not immediately, not purposely. It had been too casual to think of it as any other fling he’d had in the past. Until he’d thought, out of nowhere, _Oh._

_Oh, perhaps I want to see you again._

_Perhaps, you want to see me again._

And it’d felt like he’d landed somewhere he had not expected to be in. 

When did lovers truly meet? Was it as they were passing by each other in the street, or hanging out at a bar, or laying down on the beach of an Italian city, trying to make sense of the languages they didn’t speak but wanted to understand?

Was it as their hands brushed and they locked eyes for the very first time?

Was it after they’d had sex and lay awake, wondering where they went from there?

Was it all just first meeting after first meeting, encounter after encounter as they learned how each other’s existence worked in the world? 

And did it ever stop?

Not yet for him, it seemed. 

Fabio’s voice reached him then; he was singing as he made coffee. Another of those little tunes he’d write as they lay in bed, wasting the day away. It’d been a little while since they’d spent a morning together, mostly because Laurent was getting busier with his internship and rarely had any time. Which translated into _him_ actually _not_ wanting to have any free time. 

He didn’t want to think. 

His Italian lover didn’t mind anyway. He worked, too, and sometimes disappeared from the map. Neither of them were ones for attachments and had kept their relationship casual enough that distance didn’t bother them; but Laurent was still glad when Fabio came back to his bed. 

He liked him. 

He was funny and uncomplicated and could recite entire poems by heart, then forget his own song lyrics. 

Surprisingly, overall, what charmed him most was how often he made him laugh. As if he’d figured out the secret to press that button which anyone rarely ever did. 

Maybe it was the language barrier and all the hidden meanings were lost in translation. Maybe not. 

Maybe it was the way he brought him coffee and biscuits in bed even though they had to get ready for a brunch they were having later, or maybe it was the way he kissed his head good morning and always let it linger a second longer than the last had been. 

One more second, one more inch. Another meeting, another journey. 

And his eyes grew awake, lids fluttering open, and he wanted it. 

“Morning,” he whispered, shifting his body in Fabio’s arms, his voice still raspy. He cleared his throat, “Is it early?” 

Fabio hummed, then replied in Italian, “I’m not sure I know well enough your definition of early.”

His brain had a hard time switching, his eyebrows squinting as he thought of the words. “Early, as in, before eleven a.m.?” he asked. 

Laughing, “It’s early.”

“I smell coffee,” Laurent said, pushing the man away, gently, “Give me coffee.”

“You’re so demanding.”

Sitting up, Laurent reached for his glasses and couldn’t help but smirk at the look Fabio was giving him. He said, charming as he could also be, “I have been told.”

Fabio smiled, placing the little tray he’d brought from the kitchen between them on the bed. Laurent realized then, as he grabbed for the biscuit he always got first, half of it covered in chocolate, that he’d gotten used to this routine. How they always found the time to do nothing and make it mean everything. 

Today was no different. It was a Sunday and they were already late; the world had grown awake while they slept, tangled in each other. They chatted as they ate, his brain thawning slowly with the caffeine and the sugar. They took their time, pausing to kiss mid sentence, hands finding hands, traveling across skin. Searched for and found. 

Be it a lover or a soulmate, there was one thing all fairy tales, old plays and poems seemed to agree upon; what we search for, and what makes us stay, and what brings us closer to the brink, and that with the power to have a start and to put an end, is a touch. A touch that lingered. 

A touch that made the soul ignite, set fire to one’s senses. Reorganize a steady psyche and give a hammer to one’s heart.

A touch was enough. 

All he’d ever wanted; fingers on his, cupping his face, combing back hair, brushing the inside of his thighs, tracing the moles on his back, on his shoulders, giving him goosebumps. 

Laurent couldn’t tell whether he had found it or if he was the one being found, but his life seemed to change at such a speed he didn’t have time to sit down and figure it out. What were the odds? Three years of undergrad and he had not found a single interesting soul. 

Meanwhile here, kilometers away from home, he’d found a person. Only one, but that sufficed. Someone who never ate much and left him to eat all the biscuits left in the plate, who preferred to sit back and read poetry with perfect diction and skill as he stuffed himself with sweets. 

It was enough, now, wasn’t it? 

It was more than enough. 

He’d thought about it very hard. All week. Every day, every minute, every second, he had been thinking about it. 

Why did he feel so odd? 

“Listen to this one,” Fabio said. He was sprawled on the bed, on top of the covers, back straight against the headboard, wearing nothing except a pair of boxers. He had a small, old-looking book in his left hand, his right one resting on Laurent’s thigh. “It’s a Pavese.”

Laurent sighed, laying back down and resting his head on Fabio’s shoulder. In English, he asked, “Is it another of those with heavily stilted antique words?” 

“Stilted?”

“Pompous.”

“Ah,” then, some laughter, “Just a few. Not many, I think you’ll understand it.”

“You underestimate my Italian.”

“I think you underestimate yourself, Lori.”

He didn’t. As a matter of fact, Laurent was terrible at Italian. Worse than he’d thought he’d be after graduating as a linguist and having taken both French and Spanish in college due to his own family heritage. He was better at French than Spanish, and yet he had managed to excel at them. 

He’d thought, mistakenly, that getting his masters in Italy would mean he’d take up on the language, and so far he had only achieved to learn the insults and cuss words by heart, memorize a few song lyrics and more or less know his way through a basic conversation about food and the weather. 

Not everyone could be like Nicaise who spoke not just Italian but also, obviously, French, Spanish, Russian, Mandarin and conversational Hungarian. Accentless, perfectly fluent, could pass for a local in any of the aforementioned. 

It was infuriating, except Fabio took a liking to helping him improve. Gently correcting him whenever something didn’t make sense, or simply trying to pull the thoughts out of his head and understand the meaning beyond the words. 

That’s how it’d been ever since the night they’d met a few months ago, when it was still a bit cooler and the days were shorter; Nicaise had dragged him to another bar in the city centre. It wasn’t one of the loud places he tended to choose whenever he was looking for a new distraction, but one to have a drink or two after work and talk. 

They were still fairly new, more Laurent than Nicaise, who’d visited on countless occasions before. Laurent was in that sort of between that happened when one believed to know the route to a place only to get lost. As in the, don’t have it quite yet but almost. 

He still didn’t know many people aside from his colleagues, and sometimes the homesickness struck him indefinitely. 

So they’d gone to the place, and they were sitting just by the bar. Out of nowhere, a drink was placed in front of him; another of the one he was having. The bartender gestured in the direction of a guy close in age to his, sitting on the opposite corner. When Laurent looked over, the guy smiled. He had light brown hair, bright eyes the colour of honey. Handsome, with sun-kissed skin and soft features. 

He approached him, and Laurent was surprised to find the man was taller than he expected, roughly ten centimeters or so. He said something in quick Italian that he didn’t catch, and it must have shown on his face, for the man bore an expression as puzzled as his own. 

Nicaise had left him to his fate, and so Laurent tried to say a mix of English and Italian that didn’t make any sense. 

“Sorry, I don’t—” he gestured with his hands, “I don’t understand what you said.”

The man’s eyes lit up. He understood. “My English is not very good,” he said, then offering his hand, “I’m Fabio.” 

Fabio. His hand was calloused, but the shake was strong however gentle. “Laurent.” 

“Laurent,” Fabio said, rolling his R. He smiled, as if saying his name was something he liked. “I said you’re very beautiful.” 

_Trip no further, pretty sweeting_

_Journeys end in lovers meeting_

_What is love? ‘Tis not hereafter_

Laurent smiled at the memory, settling back comfortably, “Go on then.”

Clearing his throat, Fabio started. His voice was so sweet and mellow, Laurent could spend hours listening to him, falling in and out of sleep. Magic. _Blasphemy_. 

Poetry.

“Ancora cadrà la pioggia sui tuoi dolci selciati, una pioggia leggera come un alito o un passo. Ancora la brezza e l'alba fioriranno leggere come sotto il tuo passo, quando tu rientrerai. Tra fiori e davanzali, i gatti lo sapranno.”

It was beautiful, even if the meaning escaped him in its entirety. There was rain and cats and nostalgia and he closed his eyes. Quietly this time, “Go on.” 

Fabio continued, “Ci saranno altri giorni, ci saranno altre voci. Sorriderai da sola. I gatti lo sapranno. Udrai parole antiche, parole stanche e vane come i costumi smessi delle feste di ieri.”

_There will be other days, there will be other voices. You will smile alone._

It wasn’t a sad poem per se, but it made him feel seen. Known. Laurent hated seeing himself reflected in any sort of media. He hated feeling understood and he hated relating to characters and he hated how awful his heart always itched at it. It didn’t burn or ache, it always _itched_ and he couldn’t get rid of that sensation.

That dirty, ugly sensation of being...seen. 

Of being reminded who he was and what his life and his losses entailed. Of the empty spaces inside of him that could never be filled. 

Because he was an empty teapot. A cold, misplaced, broken and glued back together teapot with a hole in the middle. 

_The cats will know._

In Italian, Laurent said, “I don’t like this one. It’s too sad.”

“Is it?” Fabio asked, kissing his head, “I think it’s rather hopeful.”

“Hopeful.” like an echo. 

“You know,” Fabio said, “I like your Italian better like this.”

There was a hint of a smile on his lips before he even realized. Softly, “How so?”

Kissing his shoulder, in a breath, “When you whisper it in my ear.”

Laurent tilted his head slightly, just enough to catch his lover’s lips halfway. 

_What’s to come is still unsure:_

_In delay there lies no plenty,—_

_Then come kiss me, Sweet-and-twenty,_

_Youth’s a stuff will not endure._

***

_D: buongiorno. or well, good morning, to those who can’t speak italian._

***

Brunch was at a different place each time, because God forbid Nicaise happened to eat at the same café twice in less than one month. Even if Laurent was content with going to their local place and having a cup of coffee and a pastry as he did when he was bored and lonely on a particular slow shift at the office, Nicaise found this terribly absurd and mundane _and_ basic, so of course, he was the one to choose where to go. 

It wasn’t something they did as often as back home in Marlas, where they had started going on weekly Sunday brunch with Aimeric and Jord during the weeks following both Aimeric’s and his own dissertations. Jord had graduated the summer before and was getting a masters degree, and Nicaise was a prodigy who gave classes instead of taking them. So basically Aimeric and himself were the only poor unfortunate souls dealing with the stress of hopefully graduating. 

It was funny when he thought of it, because Aimeric pretty much stress-baked and he stress-ate and they made quite the pair. 

On days like this, he missed him terribly. 

They hadn’t talked much in the past days, but Laurent was giving Aimeric time to sort himself out. He never did well when cornered against a wall; after ten years of friendship that much Laurent knew. 

Still, he wondered if he should text. 

Fabio held his hand as he drove. He was a skilled and yet crazy driver, always trying to find shortcuts only to realize afterwards that it was probably illegal. It always made Laurent laugh. The restaurant was merely twenty minutes away by car, but they were already running late so Fabio went a bit over the limit. They had the windows rolled down and Laurent had to put up his hair in a small bun so it wouldn’t get all over his face. 

“What’s on your mind, pretty boy?” 

Laurent shrugged, “Mischief.” 

“Mischief?”

In Italian, “ _Malizia_.”

Fabio laughed but didn’t comment on it. By the time they arrived at the restaurant, Nicaise and his new lover were sitting at a table by the terrace. They introduced themselves politely, exchanging smiles and whatnot. 

“You’re late.” Nicaise said, sipping what seemed to be a mimosa from a flute. 

“Don’t be mad, _Nicasio_ ,” said Fabio, scanning the menu, “We’re here now.”

Nicaise frowned at the nickname and Laurent laughed, knowing how much it irritated Nicaise. Fabio obviously said it as a joke each and every time, but it never stopped being funny. 

He was ordering a mimosa and his second coffee of the day when his phone buzzed. After the waiter was gone, he glanced over the notifications and his heart stopped upon seeing Damen’s name on the screen. 

They had exchanged phone numbers, and they’d texted a few times after their dinner. At first it had been nothing more than a few lines of vague interest, but it had quickly escalated into the teasing and banter they had when they were younger. 

Only, a bit more mature. 

_What a bastard._ Playful in a way Damen hadn’t been in years, making fun of his italian. 

He typed a response, hoping it conveyed all his feelings at once.

_L: fuck you._

Damen started to type then, and he waited, more amused than pissed, for a response. 

_D: you couldn’t handle it._

Laurent felt himself flush red, heads to toe. When he looked up from his phone, Nicaise was giving him a look. He ignored him, bringing his thumb to his mouth and biting it superficially. His eyes darted, unconsciously, to Fabio. 

He laughed a little because it was ridiculous ~~and funny~~ and then read the text again. 

His breath got caught somewhere in his ribcage, again.

_What a bastard._

_What a bastard. What a bastard. What a bastard._

_Why?_

Why did it only take four words to make his head spin? His body reacted to Damen like a match to fire; it lit up and then burnt until there was nothing left but ashes. 

Ashes to ashes. 

Laurent to Damen. Damen to Laurent. 

He wanted to—he didn’t know what he wanted. Maybe, for the first time in his life, he should do exactly the opposite of what he thought would be the best. 

Maybe this was the moment where he let himself be guided by the definitely unexpected that ruled his life. Fate and the universe and all those who had seemed to have it against him for so long. 

Maybe this was where he receded, where he gave up and lowered his sword. 

Maybe this is where he tried. 

Two could play that game, after all. 

_L: wanna bet?_

***

_D: this meetings are endless_

_L: these*_

_D: typo_

_L: texting during work? how naughty of you_

_D: some things never change_

_L: I actually seem to recall you being a goody two shoes_

_D: does that mean you corrupted me?_

_L: I'd say I made things fun_

_D: and I'd agree_

***

Just after the brunch, Fabio took him to the gallery he worked at. He wasn’t just handsome, but incredibly clever in spite of his goofiness, and well doted for the arts. He was so meticulous about everything he did it was not surprising when Laurent had found out he had studied to be a curator, and he had a summer internship learning and working at one of the city’s main galleries. 

When Laurent asked him about it, Fabio said it had been a stroke of luck that he had gotten it. Endearing if not unassuming. 

In anyone else, he would have disliked it. He’d found it fake. But the more he learnt about this man, the more he discovered he had not a trace of _malice_ in his body. He never called anyone names and had carried a spider in his hand when Laurent had attempted to kill it with a shoe. 

Endearing, if not unassuming. Laurent had called him a liar. 

And Fabio had laughed, asking in return how had Laurent gotten an internship abroad. 

_“I cheated.”_

That was also a lie. But he didn’t believe in luck, much less in his ever glowing potential. He just knew he’d worked very fucking hard and his whole sanity had depended on a escape plan.

And here he was. 

They went through security, Fabio showing his badge to allow them access without tickets. It wasn’t the first time Laurent visited, but it felt different not having an annoyed and bored Nicaise trailing after him, making fun of every sculpted penis he saw around. 

In moments like those, he showed his age. He wasn’t that much younger than Laurent, merely a couple years, but it made the gap seem the size of a continent. 

Once inside the reception area, Fabio grabbed an English map from a counter and handed it to him, “I have to meet with my Professor for a little bit, you can go ahead and I’ll catch up with you.” 

He kissed his cheek quickly and Laurent watched him go. 

Finding himself alone in the waves of tourists and school trips, Laurent got one of the last audio guides available to try and give himself some sense of direction while he waited. He followed one of the main routes on the map, marked as the most popular, and set off to the rooms with the sculptures collection.

He wasn’t much for paintings because they rarely ever reached him, but sculptures he liked best. It was amazing how someone could carve up entire portraits out of rough materials like stone and metal. Beauty that came from pure roughness and that was earned by equal drops of talent, perseverance and strength. _Magic_ , he thought. _Blasphemy_. 

_Art_. 

He roamed about, inhaling the smell of long-forgotten wars won and lost. Ancient civilizations and entire empires reduced to memories of dust specks, dancing in the air of galleries and museums around the world. 

Stories, and what was left of them. 

People talked about museums mostly focusing on the big picture. Of great, huge, big things that made humanity excell over themselves continuously. But rarely anyone focused on the small stories; the insignificant lives that made art, too.

Those who weren’t the best but weren’t bad and whose names were lost through the passing of time. 

Fabio was a curator and one of the odd ones who thought like him. He talked about how much one could learn of an artist through a painting; the time it was made, the materials used, assumptions about the lives they lead and how valuable it came to be. It was all undeniably true, but still Laurent wondered about the insignificant ones and the art that became their memento to the generations that came after. 

Their art lived forever. Their style was studied and followed and criticized. 

And what about their stories? 

Maybe that’s why his dad told stories. Give a meaning to the insignificant; make it something worth finding out. And be frozen in those specks of dust that adorned the pages of books once read and adored. Exchange a tale for a life, and be forgotten.

 _And what do you do_ , he wondered, _when you feel like you’re being forgotten?_

_What do you hold onto?_

His steps echoed on the floor. He thought of Auguste. He stopped by the image of a Lady of Sorrows, wishing there was something else to remember him by, and not just memory or books or a guitar. 

In front of him, the Virgin cried. 

_At the heart of all great art is an essential melancholy._

Lately, Laurent had realized he couldn’t remember Auguste’s voice anymore. 

He remembered something, a word, but it sounded wrong; muffled, the timbre a bit off. Most likely it wasn't the way he had sounded at all. 

Religious statues had never meant anything to him. And yet, for some reason this one did. 

Because sorrow and misfortune make a story.

_And happiness never lasts._

***

_D: hey you're pretty much a local, what are kids into these days?_

_L: don't you pay people a lot of money to pitch marketing ideas for you?_

_D: they're mediocre, also it's called target customer analysis_

_L: fancy words for people watching_

_D: you think you're real smart, don't you?_

_L: you only think that because you're dumb in comparison_

***

With the sun setting and the evening breeze taking place, they decided to walk back to the city centre instead of taking the bus. 

The air was still damp enough that he felt sweat roll down his back the moment they stepped out the confined fridge-like ambient of the gallery and he wanted nothing more than a bottle of crisp cool water and a whole pint of ice cream. 

Fabio held his hand, even though it was sweaty and clammy. He didn’t seem to care, fitting the spaces between his own long fingers, as though they were meant to fit. In a way, he supposed they did.

With his other hand, however, he fanned himself with a pamphlet he’d taken from the gallery, and suggested stopping at a gelateria on their way back home. 

And so they walked, their steps loud on cobblestones, their faces hiding underneath the shadows of the trees that surrounded them. Fabio was talking excitedly about the trip to Greece he’d planned with his friends and how much he’d liked if Laurent could go, too. 

“You know I have work and I can’t leave,” he said in response, Fabio nodding with a sigh.

“I know, I know,” then, coming to a stop, “But I will miss you.” 

How could someone just be sweet for the sake of being sweet? When he was with Fabio, the world went still. Sometimes it felt like they were the only ones breathing that rich summer air; intoxicating and surreal, basking on their senses. 

Laurent smiled, “It’ll just be two weeks.”

“Is that your way of saying you too will miss me?”

Teasingly, “A reminder of how much you’ll suffer without me.”

Grinning, “Do you always make everything complicated, Lori?”

“Why do you say it like it’s amusing you?”

“Because it is.”

“Is it now?”

“Very much so.”

“It’s more theatrical than complicated.”

“You should be a writer.”

“And what would I write about?”

“How much you’ll miss me.”

Laurent felt himself smiling slowly, a chuckle escaping him before a smiling Fabio lifted his chin with a hand, lips brushing, then joining, then melting away. It was chaste at first, too much, and Laurent deepened it, opening his mouth for him. 

His back was leaning against a cool stone wall and all he could focus on was how relieving it felt against his hot skin. That, and how much he yearned to be kissed. Every time, he wanted it badly. Some sort of spark coming alive within him, reminding him of how it felt to be alive. 

Of how it could be, should he let his numbness go. Should he wave that melancholy goodbye.

And be alive. Feel alive. 

He wanted his heart fluttering awake inside his chest, like a bird learning to fly. He wanted his senses drowned in emotion. He wanted the dizziness that came with making out with an Italian man in a hidden road by the stone walls of an ancient city that had welcomed millions of different lives, of love stories. 

He could have this. 

He could have him. 

Attentive and sweet man who whispered poetry in foreign languages and who pleased him like nobody else had done before. Who cared for him and liked him even if Laurent couldn’t understand it himself. Who never asked for more than what Laurent was offering—

 _But he doesn’t know you,_ said that other voice in his head. That other Laurent, the spectrum that haunted the super 8 film of a past he’d tried to bury with his own brother. 

_He doesn’t know who you are. He hasn’t seen you, just the water-coloured version that you painted for him._

_But when he finds you, he’ll leave._

_Do you even have feelings for him? Do you care for him? Broken as you are; a teapot without a bottom. You can’t hold anything inside._

_You’re empty._

Fabio pulled away, but Laurent didn’t let go. Even if he wanted to, even if that was the part of the film where his arms dropped to his sides and he flinched and he got angry with himself. He did not let go. Fabio didn’t interpret it in a bad way, but thought it playful, if not just affectionate. 

They weren’t kissing anymore, just hugging. He didn’t let go. 

“Lori?” Fabio whispered after a minute. “You okay, love?”

He nodded. When he was sure his hands wouldn’t tremble, he pulled away, faked a smile the way he’d learnt to. _Don’t make it too perfect, or the lie is too obvious, a little shy and crooked, a bit sentimental, that one everyone believes._ “Shall we go?”

_Pity this man who thinks will fall for you because you can’t fall for him back._

Nodding, Fabio started to walk, their hands still together, “They have a nice Gelato shop around here,” and then, “Just another five minutes, maybe.”

They grew silent after that, the only sound that of their steps and the few birds still out before sunset. It wasn’t still they reached the corner before the gelato shop that he saw it; fate and the universe as words. 

The sign looked old and was attached to what seemed to be an electricity pole. Quirky thing, he thought. It gave him goosebumps. 

It read, in Italian: _Ciò che è tuo riuscirà sempre a tornare da te._

Coming to a stop, his heart beated oddly. 

“What does it say?” he asked, but he knew. 

Fabio read it and thought for a few seconds before replying, in English, _“What’s meant for you will always find its way back to you.”_

And his fingers, his hands, his stomach and legs...all began to tremble. No one ever noticed, no one realized for it was so slight, so subtle. 

But he felt it, a bass resonating all through his body. 

And he thought of Damen. 

Involuntarily as of always, his own thoughts disconcerted him. He had avoided the subject all day, in spite of the constant back and forth they had through text. But the moment had let his guard down, his own mind deceived him. 

It seemed that in spite of the years that made them strangers, he had returned to the very place where he’d started; a feeling that weighed him down and that he couldn’t name because naming things made them real and he couldn’t deal with a reality that scared him so much he would start trembling. 

A longing so deep it could be confused with aching hunger. 

A choice, in his hands, like an empty candy box that was all a trinket and a treasure and a war trophy. His very own memento. 

Did it mean anything that their paths had crossed again or was he just entering another circle of Dante’s Hell?

_Midway upon the journey of our life_

_I found myself within a forest dark,_

_For the straightforward pathway had been lost._

If Laurent didn’t react now, nothing would change — it wouldn’t take but it wouldn’t give. And the world would keep its course, drifting away from the crossroad he’d found himself at. 

He could stop replying to his texts. He could still run away. 

He could still change their fate, one more time. 

Maybe he’d look back to this very moment and regret it. Whatever he did, maybe he would always regret it. 

That’s how he’d come to know it was fate all along, leading them there. Fate was merciless and it couldn’t be changed. It didn’t take suggestions or asked for an opinion.

In the end, those who defied God were the ones to make good stories. Those who wept and who felt and weren’t empty. Those with insignificant lives were the ones to nurture the extraordinary. 

And more than anything else in his entire life, Laurent just wanted to believe in it. At least for a minute. For a second. 

The very blink of an eye. 

Nothing was ever the same after that.

***

_D: who knew you became such a little shit_

_L: you already knew that_

_D: it's like I'm getting to know you all over again_

_D: but I do remember you being a pain in the ass_

***

There was a price to pay for their game. 

Auguste had told him so once, although not with those exact same words. But he remembered. It was something he heard every time he’d looked at it for the past four years. 

He often wondered if it had been the catalyst to his misery. 

But how could it, when it’d only brought him joy, between a rush of emotions? 

Nicaise wasn’t home when he arrived, and the flat was cold and dark. He walked in auto-pilot, kicking his shoes by the doormat and turning on the lights as he went on. He took off his jacket —Damen’s jacket— and left it on the bed before kneeling and reaching underneath, pulling out the carousel box from its slumber again. He shook off the dust and the dirt, and regarded it for a moment. 

He had never been able to get rid of it. He’d never let anyone else touch it or seen it ever since. But he was sure now — he had been waiting for this. 

Laurent stole one of the many empty cardboard boxes of online shopping Nicaise had in his bedroom and put the candy tin inside, a post-it note attached to it. He sealed the parcel as if it contained his beating heart and some gold — maybe it did — and wrote the address in black marker on top. 

Then he grabbed it, tossed it between his hands a few times, feeling its weight. Slowly, Laurent smiled. A genuine, simple smile.

 _“Pain in the ass_ ,” had said Damen. 

_Huh._

_Game._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Happy Saturday!
> 
> I hope everyone's having a good weekend so far. Nothing much to say today, except that I know there's less Damen than usual in this chapter but you'll see A LOT more as the story progresses. In the mean time I hope you liked to know a bit more about my baby boy baby Fabio because he's honestly one of my fav characters now (lolol) 
> 
> Again thanks a lot for your comments and messages, you're all incredibly sweet and supportive <3 I don't deserve you, nor I deserve my sweethearts Lyss, Ellen and demon-friend for all their arduous and continuous help. 
> 
> A lot of references in this one, however I won't mention the obvious Shakespeare and Dante ones. You can read the whole poem F & L read together (in English) here: [The Cats Will Know](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/51514/the-cats-will-know) by Cesare Pavese. 
> 
> "At the heart of all great art is an essential melancholy." quote by Federico García Lorca. 
> 
> And finally, a small, hidden one. "Like a plea, a petition, a kind of prayer" lyrics taken from [ Love Letter](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-9_WVhF5JKE) by Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds. (I recommend you to listen to this song and save it in your memories forever, not just because it's beautiful but because it's been a great inspiration for this whole thing overrall) 
> 
> Feedback and comments fully appreciated! You know where to find me: I'm [princesgambit](https://twitter.com/princesgambit) on twitter (where I spend most of my time) and [dearanemone](https://princesgambit.co.vu/) on tumblr.
> 
> Check out Linger's playlist on Spotify [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3xzKQO5iKGl5LmoLbJUxUq?si=SD0-xQXHQy6TuYFZ1NrkUg). 
> 
> See you!


	12. Act II: Chapter 11 Pt. 1

When Nicaise found Laurent, hammered and smoking a cigarette by a lamppost outside the club, it felt more like watching his old self in an astral projection than an actual scene of his present life. 

He was drunk, so it probably seemed more overly dramatic than it really was, but still he couldn’t help feeling like he was staring into a mirror. 

Laurent didn’t even spare him a glance as he approached. He looked sickly pale under the streetlight; sweaty, the bags under his eyes more prominent than they’d look hours, days, months before, when they’d first met. 

Nicaise was always under the impression that there was something wrong with Laurent. He couldn’t tell what it was sober, much less drunk, but it was also something he recognized in himself. That _wrongness_ that bound them together even unintentionally. 

The memory of a life that had drifted from its course and had landed roughly back on its lane, different than it had been and with scars that wouldn’t fade. 

Perhaps that’s how he knew, that night, in that light and with booze clouding his mind, that as much as Laurent and him were different, they were equally similar. Just two sides of the same coin.

Lonely and suffocated and living life poorly through chosen vices to accommodate for that wrongness. That hollowness. The memories and the thoughts that came unpredicted and merciless against the sole spirit of survival that attached them to that lane. 

“Where’s Aimeric?” Nicaise asked, hands in his pockets. The smell of piss and vomit wasn’t as strong as it was inside, but lingered in a worse way, mixing with the stench of garbage and wet dirt from after the rain. 

“He left a while ago,” said Laurent, blowing a cloud of smoke, shifting his weight on his feet, “With Jord.”

 _And they left you alone?_ He didn’t say. Instead, “I thought we’d leave together tonight.”

Laurent waved his hand dismissively, coughed once, “He said something. I don’t remember.”

Nicaise sighed, quickly dialing his personal driver to pick them up. He wasn’t far anyway, he never was. “Are you okay?” 

“I feel sick.” 

“You shouldn’t smoke then.”

Laurent shrugged,“I shouldn’t.” and took a long drag. 

Two minutes later, a black car was parked directly in front of them. He opened the door, said a greeting to his driver and shoved Laurent inside the best he could before following inside and closing the door shut. 

He was tired and the alcohol only made him sleepy as the car moved, always so swiftly. Had he been alone, he probably would have slept, but with Laurent next to him looking like a wreck, he had the feeling it would be better to remain awake. So he did, watching the city lights through the window. 

Over the years, city lights had become his stars. He was never in one place enough for the roads and landscapes to become familiar, but the lights were all almost the same anywhere he went. When travelling he always had that faint feeling of jamais vu; been there before enough times that it wasn’t completely unknown, but never _home_. 

It had always been easier to pretend he had a home when he was away than to accept the fact he had none. It helped when he felt stranded and unwanted.

Slowly, though, Marlas was becoming more like a home and less like another business roadstop. He wondered, if he stayed enough, would he feel restless or just relieved?

Laurent was breathing heavily, the pained sound only increasing. He had his eyes closed, and his arms around himself. Nicaise wasn’t completely sure, but he thought he’d seen his hands trembling, pressing his arms and then just gripping the sleeves of his jacket. 

Leaning towards the front part of the car, Nicaise asked the driver to stop. This one complied, as always, and came to a slow stop on the side of the road, away from the highway. 

Nicaise watched Laurent get out without a word, arms still around himself. He knew, from experience, that he was trying to keep it together. Trying to breathe, but not being very successful at it. Drowning in panic created by his own brain. 

He only got out of the car when he saw Laurent crouch down and vomit loudly onto the pavement. Feeling like a bad friend, feeling like he was back to that tiny bathroom in a plane; half of his brain high out of his mind on cocaine and the other half hungover enough that he could tell he was panicking. Gagging and feeling the walls coming down on his back but never landing. Hoping to die but afraid it might actually happen. 

Nicaise swayed a little as he walked, but managed to reach Laurent, pat his back a few times and wait for him to stand back up before giving him a bottle of water. Laurent took it in silence, cleaning his mouth with the back of his hand. 

It wasn’t until they were back in the car and moving that he spoke. Glasses up in his hair, he was rubbing his eyes furiously. He said, angrily, “I want to go away.” And, “I want to leave.” 

Quietly, he asked, “Where do you want to go?” 

“Anywhere,” bitterly, “Just far from here. I’m sick of this place.”

 _Anywhere_. Nicaise had been there once and never left. 

_Anywhere. Everywhere. Wherever I’m wanted or needed. Somewhere I can hide. Somewhere people don’t know who I am and don’t even care._

He didn’t answer. All he could do was let Laurent hold his arm when he reached for it and watch him fall asleep.

No, it wasn’t all he could do. 

He could take him away. 

He could be a good friend now. 

He could do for Laurent what no one ever did for him; offer him a hand to get up from that side of the road, that tiny bathroom in a plane. 

Take him somewhere where his scars were just stars underneath city lights. 

***

Whatever bit of composure Laurent had left in his body was drained when he saw Damen walk into the coffee shop they’d agreed on meeting at. 

He wasn’t sure how or if his dare would be welcome, but by the sights of it, it had been taken alright. Perhaps he’d been a bit over the top, considering four years had passed since they’d paused the game. 

But well, in the end it’d been Damen’s choice. ~~And he’d chosen right.~~

So when Damen walked in, fully dressed in a teddy bear costume Laurent had ordered to his hotel, he laughed so hard he almost snorted his coffee up his nose. 

Damen held himself differently than he had in University whenever Laurent’s dares were too much. He was cockier now, setting the box on the table Laurent was waiting at and sitting across from him as nonchalantly as someone could while dressed as a giant bear. People were staring, pointing and laughing. But once their eyes locked, neither of them dare look anywhere else.

Lost to the world or the world lost to them. 

“I hate you,” he said as a greeting. 

“Does it fit well?” Laurent asked, once he’d managed to stop his laughter, “I wasn’t sure about the—” a pause, “proportions, so I ordered an extra large.”

Damen smiled sardonically, “It’s a bit tight in some areas.” 

Raising an eyebrow, Laurent said, “I’ll take that into consideration next time.”

Whether Damen looked angry or defeated, Laurent couldn’t tell. It was funny, whatsoever. “I hope there won’t be a next time.”

“Surely you know me better than that.”

“Yes, that’s why I chose _‘hope’_ instead of _‘expect’_. Weren’t you supposed to be a linguist?”

The corners of his lips turned into a smirk. He said, “I could give you an entire lesson on why you’re wrong, but let’s just say ‘ _wish’_ would have been a better word.”

With a buff, Damen eyed the small menu of drinks in front of him, “I don’t like wishes.”

“Why not? I would have thought you’re one of those throwing pennies at the Trevi fountain.”

Matter-of-factly, “Because it turns out that what we want is not what we get.” 

“Ah, you’re the superstitious type.”

“Why, does that amuse you?”

Smiling, “Only a little.” and then, “Either way, you know we can’t repeat dares. It’s against the rules. So don’t worry about it.”

“I worry.” Damen said, “I’ve known you since you were a baby. Therefore, I worry a lot.”

I worry, therefore I exist. 

_I fear_ , he thought, _therefore I retreat._

Nodding, Laurent linked his hands together over the table, then asked, “How does it feel to be so old?” 

Damen flipped him off before standing up and walking to the counter, ordering an espresso and croissant for himself. He took his sweet time stirring and adding the amount of sugar that he wanted, another way of stalling while giving thought to how badly he probably wanted to kill Laurent for having him dressed as a teddy bear. 

All in all, Laurent could just watch him. ~~Always used to watch him.~~ He’d gotten the teddy bear idea from a picture he’d stolen, too many years ago, from Damen’s house. It was a small, old picture of a baby Damen dressed up as a brown bear and smiling brightly, without teeth because he didn’t have any yet. No matter how coaxed, Laurent would never tell the truth about that picture; why he took it or how he got away with it. If anyone asked, he’d say it was because of a dare. Some kind of leverage against Damen. 

Right. 

But no one would ever ask, because he’d hidden it so well he’d forgotten he had it until it slid off one of the many books he’d taken with him when moving abroad. 

Nostalgic and utterly mischievous as he was, the idea had come to him almost like a premonition. For a minute, he’d thought Damen wouldn’t do it. 

He thought, _Oh perhaps he’s finally outgrown me. This, my biggest fear at last. Perhaps we’re both too old for games. Perhaps he’ll call me just to laugh at my silliness. Perhaps he won’t even call._

He’d been wrong, though, and he’d never been happier to be so off. 

Because he could have this, right? He could...have this easy conversation, easy behaviour around someone he knew. Easy breathing caught in his throat and sending a mayhem alarm to his head whenever Damen laughed at something he did or said. 

Could he have this even if he was empty? Could he have this—keep this summer warmth, before the cold came back? 

Whole, but for a season. 

Game, until the thrill expired. If it ever did. ~~It wouldn’t.~~

When Damen came back to the table, he set his small cup and plate down and sunk back into his chair. Groaned, “I hate you, Laurent. God, I have business meetings today.”

He shrugged, took another sip of his coffee, “That sounds like a you problem.”

“You will regret this.”

“Oh no,” he said, voice as monotonous as he could muster it, “I’m trembling in fear.” 

Laurent saw the way Damen smiled, the glint of a challenge in his eyes, and back then he didn’t know that he would, indeed, regret it. For the rest of his life. No, he just thought of the day they had; blue skies and golden sunshine colouring their path. 

“I’ll give you a ride to your office when you finish,” and then, seeing the confusion on Damen’s face, Laurent gestured to the helmet resting on a chair next to him, “On my Vespa.”

Raising an eyebrow, something akin to condescendence lacing his voice, “You ride?”

Laurent responded, in the same tone, “Yes. Is that so hard to believe?”

“Yes, it is.” And then, “I distinctly remember you falling off your bike way too often when we were younger.”

Scoffing, “That was only _one_ time we raced together and you _cheated_.” 

“Still sore about that?”

He felt himself pouting, then stopped, but it happened again, “I was eleven, Damianos. You were seventeen.”

Damen laughed, “Were you always this whiny?”

“Am I? Why don't you tell me more about how your employees are undermining your authority now.”

Laurent felt in the air the moment where Damen would have wanted to either curse him or hit him or perhaps, quite amusingly, both. To his surprise, he did neither. 

After a while, Damen said, simply, “Sore loser.” 

He laughed, “What does that make you then? Why didn’t you yield?”

“And let you win? I don’t think so.”

“Oh,” He eyed him up and down, “I think I’m winning right now.”

“Do enjoy it while it lasts.”

“You’re right, I should.”

It was the wrong thing to say, Damen realized, the moment Laurent pulled out his phone and started to snap pics of him. 

Quietly, prayer or resignation, “Jesus fucking Christ.” 

Funnily enough, Laurent’s mind went back to a time where he’d wish to have Damen right around his finger, the way Damen had had him once, when he was still too young and innocent. 

It always felt to him Damen ended having the upper hand no matter how badly he tried to be in tandem. Damen never glanced back at him. 

And now, for the first time, it felt like he was winning. It felt like he had Damen exactly where he wanted for so long, and he hadn’t done anything. Just wait. 

Where did that leave them then? 

Friends for a summer, for a season, until the thrill faded away with both their past selves’ regrets? Or rather anew, their excitement brand new, feelings untangled — strangers in a new light, a better version.

Just as his own life reorganized itself to compensate for his losses, he wondered if it reshaped to include his earnings. Besides memories and pictures, was there anything else he’d get to keep?

_Enjoy it while it lasts._

Well then, if he may. 

***

There was something about the way Damen held onto him as they rode that made him almost lose his entire mind. It was the closest they’d been ever since their awkward hug post-dinner date and it took most of his will power to try and focus on everything else; the amount of gas still in the tank, his own grip on the handlings, the traffic, all the tourists that forgot to decently walk through a city as they took pictures, the buildings, the monuments, the streets he had come to know and love as if he’d lived there all his life. 

The sun, the sky, the breeze touching his face. ~~Damen’s presence right behind him.~~

He smiled, in spite of himself, because how rare it was for them to end up like this. How curious — it almost felt like luck, something he’d never believed in before. Laurent was good at predicting situations — anticipating the worst so he could handle whatever came his way. This time, though, he had to admit he never saw this one coming at all. 

Years later, he’d look over the timeline of his life and wonder how it happened — the magic he experienced firsthand and the people he witnessed it all with. He knew back then there wouldn’t be a second _Italy_ for him. He knew beautiful, unexpected things happened once if ever at all. He knew those days were the happiest, the golden ones to miss forever. 

So he sat in that Vespa and took shortcuts that made Damen yelp with fear and then excitement and he grinned the entire way to his office, thinking how glad he was it’d been this way. This strange, unpredictable way. 

An empty candy box, a ruthless game and a pretty boy to play with. 

A pretty boy turned into a handsome man, falling for his traps. Sliding between his cupped hands, finding his way back into a life Laurent had deemed boring and dull then painting it back into colours. 

It took them no longer than twenty minutes to get to Damen’s office, and he parked on the single empty spot left, turning off the engine and taking off his helmet. Damen did the same, and when they had both dismounted, Laurent took Damen’s leather satchel out of the underseat compartment. It was the same leather satchel he’d used in university, incredibly well kept in spite of the years. 

As he handed it back, his mind went through a million things he would have liked to say. Perhaps if he had chosen a bit more wisely, things would have turned out extremely different. His heart wanted to scream so loudly it felt wrong not to let it speak out. 

He couldn’t say, _I’m happy that you are here._ He couldn’t say, _I’m happy we’re playing the game._ Definitely not, _I’ve missed you so much all these years apart have felt like a crime. I’m glad you found your way back to me and wouldn’t you say the same thing?_

_And what would you say if I asked?_

_Aren’t we lucky?_

_I never saw you coming. I never imagined you here. And yet somehow it feels like I did. It feels like a dream._

“I'm glad your old age hasn't made you boring,” it’s what he said, at last. 

Damen gave him a look, but it disappeared quickly. Then, “Say, would you like to go out this evening? There’s a pastry shop a colleague keeps recommending and well, I thought we could go together.”

Laurent shrugged even though his heart was beating a thousand kilometers per second, “Sure,” then, teasingly, “Want me to pick you up, Yogi?”

Before he could react, Damen leaned forward and flicked his forehead _hard_ as he used to do when they were kids and mean to each other. Laurent smacked his hand in response, metal connecting to flesh, and he saw the pain inflicted on Damen’s hand as he flinched and took it back, cradling it to his chest.

“Ouch,” And, appeasingly, “You’ve gotten strong.” 

_“_ I told you about the rings,” Laurent smiled, putting his helmet back on, “See you tonight, then.” 

That’s how Laurent left Damen, dressed as a teddy bear and kissing his aching hand right in front of his office building. As he rode away, he flipped him off and made a face only to burst out laughing when Damen was out of his view. 

_I never saw you coming._

_And yet somehow I think I’ve been waiting for you all this time._

***

_“A foreigner has been seen walking around the streets of Ravenel in what seems to be a teddy bear onesie. He was captured riding in the back of a Vespa with another foreigner..._ READ MORE. _”_

***

They met again a few minutes past five at the so-called famous pastry shop. 

It was small yet with a regal aesthetic that made it seem more a place that belonged in Paris or London, with full length mirrors adorning the walls and ceiling, shimmering gold and pastels everywhere he looked. A palace or even a museum turned café. 

There wasn’t a dress code, considering the obvious tourists in shorts and beach clothes, yet everyone turned to look at Damen, still dressed in a teddy onesie, like he was mad. To be honest, he probably was mad, ~~just like Laurent.~~

They were both insane. Even if they didn’t realize it quite yet. 

It took him to another place and time, when he was younger and bemused by the fact that they could easily pass for another couple. All it would have taken was grabbing Damen’s hand in his, fingers intertwined together. He remembered how badly his hand _twitched_ with both fear and desperation, when his number one desire was being seen. He remembered those random scenes in a passenger seat and a young petite barista falling for charming brown eyes and a dimpled smile just exactly like he had. 

_Fools._

Laurent remembered so much he wanted to smash his own head against a wall until he forgot. So he entered that small door inside his mind and pushed the memory away, as far as he could, until the curtains closed and the super eight film played no more, and he was back to a different script with different dialogues and by far a better plot. 

He didn’t want to remember. Gone were the days where he was hurt by any of it. Still, a part of him recoiled each and every time, as if the past could touch him; pull him back down into a nightmare. 

_Every saint has a past, and every sinner has a future._

But both sinners and saints were favoured by God; in the end they were seen and listened, and Laurent had been neither. 

In spite of its beauty, the café slash pastry shop wasn’t crowded, and there were only a few couples by the window seats. The air smelled bittersweet — like pie crust and fresh _pan dulce_ hidden by bold espresso. His stomach opened with a rumble and he had a minute of nostalgic craving, thinking of Aimeric’s own sweets. How he’d perfected his recipes through the years until he had a good enough stack to build up his own shop — something he was trying to do against his own family wishes, and in spite of his own heartbreak. 

Laurent missed him. 

He missed him every day, but in that moment in particular he missed him more. In a way, guilt enhanced the senses until one was blind with it. 

A young and surprisingly smiley waiter welcomed and sat them at a table in the corner, away from the rest of the customers, something Damen was undoubtedly thankful for. Laurent ordered a chai latte and Damen a cappuccino. 

They were ordinary. He wished he could tell that to his past self. 

“This place reminds me of Aimeric,” he mentioned, casually, scanning the menu, “Saccharine. Pompously ridiculous.” He said it in a way that was teasingly affectionate in spite of the words. _Pretty. Expensive._

“How’s Aimeric by the way?” 

Looking up from the small menu, he rested his chin on his hand before coming up with an answer. A half truth, because he couldn’t bring himself to release the whole of it. “He’s—going through something. I mean, he’s fine just...one of our friends is getting married and Aimeric is deeply in love with him,” and then, to summarize, “It’s a mess.”

Damen replied just as Damen would, “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I’m just sorry I’m not there with him. Although I think he would prefer to deal with this alone, which only makes me want to be there even more.” He really didn’t mean to continue, but the words were out before he could even stop to think about them. Perhaps he just needed someone to talk to that wasn’t having a crisis of their own. “I don't think he and I have ever agreed on anything since we've met. He’s so obstinate, promiscuous and overall odd. I don't get half the shit he talks about and he's nosy and mostly annoying.” _But he's the nicest person I've ever met._ “But he has always been there, regardless of how I've treated him.” 

_Like family, almost._

Aimeric had once told him they were more alike than Laurent thought. With the years, Laurent had found this to be true. 

Damen smiled fondly. A bit more, Laurent thought, and he’d feel the heat rise to his cheeks. “Do you think he'll get over him?”

 _No._ “He has to.”

Before Damen could say anything else, Laurent spoke again, “How was work?”

“Dreadful.” Then, he sighed, “I had to give a two-hour long meeting in,” gesturing to his own outfit, “ _this_ and then report back to my dad through Skype. Plus everyone was laughing at me behind my back.” 

Smiling, “Delightful then.”

“Not in the slightest. However, it seems that my costume went viral online and now the company is trending.” 

“So what are you saying is that I did you a favor?” clasping his hands together over the table, “Where are my thanks?”

Mockingly, “Ha-ha, whoever told you you were funny? They were lying.”

“I don't know why you're so upset. You look adorable.” ~~He did.~~

Rolling his eyes, Damen said, “Glad you think so.”

They ordered the sweets when the drinks came. The menu was long and varied as they served all kinds of pastries along with chocolate bonbons and ice cream sundaes. There was at least one dessert to represent each country in Europe, and he had a hard time deciding on one thing, which meant he obviously had to order five for himself and another five for Damen so that he could steal bites from them. 

Incredulous, if not a bit scared, “You’re gonna eat all that?”

“Of course,” then, shrugging a little, “I can take the rest to go, in any case.” 

Damen hummed in response, stirring his coffee.

After a few minutes, the waiter brought a tray from heaven; raspberry macarons, tiramisú, chestnut puree with whipped cream, thin angel strings of apricot and honey inside puff pastry, a mango and passion fruit mousse that smelled so much like passion fruit he wanted to drown in it, strawberry shortcake, a tall caramel sundae and coffee flavoured éclairs. Oh, and chocolate truffles in case the rest wasn’t enough. Laurent had purposely eaten less at lunch so that he had more space for desserts later. 

“You were really clever today,” Damen said just as the waiter walked away, “I didn't really see it coming at all.”

“I aim to please.”

“And you nailed it. I have to think of a way to get back at you good.”

For some strange reason, he felt as though he’d missed something important. He reached for a truffle, then said, “I wouldn't expect less of you, Damianos.”

Still smiling, always smiling, Damen reached into his satchel, pulling out the carousel box and setting it on the table between them and all the desserts. It looked like a screen capture of one of Sofia Coppola’s films. “Did you really think,” Damen said, “That we were just going to enjoy a nice meal together? Put that truffle down, Laurent:”

Laurent closed his mouth in slow motion, still not completely processing the situation. As he set the truffle back on its plate, he raised an eyebrow at Damen, who then continued, pushing the box towards him, “You’re not having any of these desserts. You’re going to watch me eat them all in front of you.”

_Game?_

Blinking once, twice, Laurent laughed a little, “You’re kidding.”

Damen seemed to think of it for a second, then said, “No, actually not this time, no.”

Shock left room for anger. He set his jaw, “This is very low even for you.”

“Is it?” Amusingly, then a shrug, “Yield, then.”

~~And this whole game ended with a blond man setting the table on fire.~~

Laurent felt hot, blood boiling with rage that he had to keep down for the sake of pretenses. More than anything, he wanted to plaster Damen’s satisfied smirk with every dessert on the table. 

“Very well,” he said, voice calm, sitting back against his chair, arms crossed, “You cannot possibly eat all of this on your own.” 

Bringing a spoonful of cake to his mouth, Damen savoured it slowly and Laurent watched every second of it, “Watch me.”

A glare, “You’re evil.”

And a wink, “Thank you.”

Smartly enough, Damen ate first the desserts Laurent had wanted to try the most; the mango and passion fruit mousse and the truffles. Laurent sipped his tea in silence as he considered his options; he could leave, but then he’d be a sore loser like Damen had said. He could set the shop on fire but that wouldn’t be fair to the owners. He could pretty much try and poison Damen somehow, but he couldn’t think of any lethal substance at hand. 

“You can have one,” Damen taunted him, “I would understand.”

And,

“I'm being mean.”

And,

“Come on, it's fine.”

And,

“You just have to yield and I can order more mousse and truffles.” 

But all Laurent could do was watch and try not to think of how badly he craved _sweet_. He’d yield when he was dead, for all he knew. Playing with the carousel box in his hands, he wondered what his next move would be. Something equally evil, if not more. Perhaps he’d started off too soft, after all.

Eventually, Damen moved to the caramel sundae and Laurent smiled unpleasantly, “I hope you get diarrhea.”

Damen laughed, “Consider this an intervention, I think you have a problem with sugar addiction.”

“I think you have brain damage.”

“Now no need to be rude.”

“Enjoy your dinner, Judas."

_I’ll make it your last._

Damen talked amicably as he ate. Laurent knew, however, Damen wasn’t a fan of sweets. He’d never been, preferring savoury most of the time. And yet he took each bite like it was paradise melting in his mouth and Laurent wanted to kick him in the balls. 

He’d have to get sickened at some point and then Laurent would laugh and feel a bit better. Right? Unless he’d developed some kind of tolerance and if so, he was fucked. 

Damen had only finished his second dessert when the same waiter from before approached them, asking if they were good or needed anything else. 

Eyes turned to him, all politeness, “Do you want anything, Laurent?”

He forced the words out, “No, I’m okay.”

“Are you sure?” Laurent nodded, and so Damen turned to the waiter, “Could you be a dear and bring me... _us_ a chocolate milkshake and a bottle of water?”

The waiter blushed, smiling nervously as he nodded, “Yes, right away.”

And the damn dimpled smile as the boy went, “Thank you.”

A scene from another film. Underneath the table, Laurent digged his nails into the soft flesh of his palm. Just a second or two, then let go. “You disgust me.” 

“There's something specially cute about you when you're pissed.”

“Is that why you're constantly getting on my nerves?”

“Maybe. I've gotten good at it, haven't I?”

Laurent dismissed him, too annoyed to hide his disdain. Under the table, he curled his right foot along Damen's calf, eyes wandering down at the mantelpiece. The world seemed to stop for a single second; enough for his machiavellian brain to get its way once again. 

Carefully, he asked, “Do you remember that brunette barista?” _~~And the day I almost killed us both~~ _, “The one of the laxative dare?”

Damen was quiet as he thought, then it clicked, “Huh yeah, I guess. What about her?”

Laurent hummed, before removing his leg and kicking Damen's shin hard as he looked up at him again, “Nothing, just thought about her.”

_Fucker._

Damen flinched hard, repressing a groan, “Oh my god. Stop. What’s wrong with you?”

“Sorry,” softly, sweetly, cynically, “It was an accident.”

“Yeah right,” then, “I never saw her again after that day. I forgot to call her, I guess.”

What a fool he’d been at seventeen. 

He’d probably killed them both over a girl Damen never had an intention to actually go out with. Even if the past couldn’t actively hurt him as it had once, Laurent still found himself mentally cringing at it. 

And those reckless, violent impulses, often sparing tragedy by an inch of dumb luck or miscalculation. Just as Shakespeare had said, _These violent delights have violent ends._

_And in their triumph die, like fire and powder._

Laurent didn’t say anything after that and eventually the subject changed and drifted away from their shared memories. However, he could feel it still, the elephant in the room, as they both remembered that day. The anger in Damen’s eyes. 

Rightly so, he thought now at twenty-two. ~~Rightly so, after how Auguste had died.~~

~~Suddenly, his throat closed up and it was hard to swallow. Suddenly, he was glad he wasn’t eating. Suddenly he—~~

_~~Stop and breathe.~~ _

Damen gave up after the third dessert and the milkshake, and he asked the rest to be packed up so he could take to his office the next day. The sun was setting when they stepped out of the shop, and Laurent walked straight to his Vespa without sparing the asshole another glance. 

Damen followed him anyway, “Lo…” and when Laurent didn’t react, he tried again, “Want a hug, goldilocks?”

Laurent reached his Vespa and tucked the carousel box underneath his seat before turning around to face Damen as he put on his helmet, “You can go back by yourself.”

“You can't leave a bear alone! I'll get lost and,” after a pause, “attack people.”

He rolled his eyes, fitting his hand into his gloves and then starting the engine. 

To his surprise, Damen stepped closer and said, softly, “I’ll growl at you.”

This alone was enough to make the corners of Laurent twitch slightly, but he repressed the smile. Keeping his features impassive and cold, he asked, voice bored, “Will you?”

Quietly, nervously, “Please don’t make me though.” 

Laurent got on the scooter then, “Alright, I’m leaving.”

Immediately after, Damen started to stalk him like a bear, coming closer and bringing his arms up like paws. Huffing and growling a little as he sniffed him and poked him.

Laurent couldn’t suppress the smile this time, it was too strong and big for him to try. Silly bear. Silly Damen. 

Before he could move, Damen closed the remaining space between them and enveloped him into a hug. “I'm so full,” he said, rubbing Laurent’s back gently, “I'll get a sugar rush and then regret this a lot.”

He chuckled, “I’m glad.” _~~you're here.~~ _

“How is it that you haven’t yet died of diabetes?” Damen asked, also laughing. 

“Ah,” Laurent shrugged, “Years of experience.”

“That makes it worse.”

Softly, this time, he said, leaning his weight on Damen, “You were very mean to me tonight.”

Damen held him tighter, “You were very mean to me today.”

_~~You should kiss me goodnight.~~ _

_Oh._

“How did you come up with this evil plan?”

“It's been a long day. Don't underestimate me, Lo.”

“I’m not going to apologize.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to.”

He smiled. Inside of him, a spark ignited. A drop fell from a long-droughted stream. His lonely heart held from the iron bars of its cage. He’d learn to recognize jealousy and anger and hatred and madness. 

And yet this felt closer to joy, but he couldn’t tell why. 

_Therefore love moderately; long love doth so;_

_Too swift arrives as tardy as too slow._

***

So they played. 

After the nasty pastry shop dare, Laurent had taken matters into his hands and dared Damen to sneak him into the hotel breakfast lounge and buffet of his hotel. It had been an easy dare, sure, they’d both done worse in the past, but he was still pissed and eating his weight on free desserts satisfied his thirst for blood. 

At least for a little bit. 

In exchange, Damen had dared him to write with his left hand for a full day, which had Laurent incredibly frustrated at the speed of how fast his work was accumulating when he couldn’t benefit from his usual neat and cursive handwriting, instead leaving a mess of notes that no one could understand. And so, he’d then dared Damen to break into song each time Laurent called him on the phone, no matter where he was or who he was with, which meant Damen had to melodically emphasize his responses and Laurent could hear the sound of his colleagues laughing in the background. 

Most of their dares were silly but kept them occupied as the days passed. Suddenly they were not just texting all the time but talking on the phone and meeting during their lunch breaks so they could eat together. Walking downtown when Damen spotted a lemon tree and dared Laurent to climb and get him one, then waited for him to be down on the ground to ask for three more. 

“You know, when life gives you lemo—”

Laurent grinned, then dropped one on Damen’s head, “Am I life then?”

And of course they had mojitos afterwards. 

And of course, coming to Laurent and Damen, it wasn’t enough just to outdo one another, they also needed the danger of being caught. And so, for his next dare, Laurent told Damen to break into other people's rooms in his hotel and steal the content of the mini bars. He stole one of the keys from a person of the cleaning staff and robbed the contents of one mini bar on every floor, which meant they had an arsenal of Snickers and mini flavoured Smirnoffs. 

The following Friday, Damen showed up at his door with his co-worker’s four massive dogs and passed him the box, daring him to babysit them for the weekend. Cue to them waking Laurent up at four in the morning to go for a walk turned run on a Saturday and Laurent dialing Damen to say he lost the dogs as he ran in his pajamas down the street.

“What do you mean you lost the dogs?!”

“I mean I lost the fucking dogs, Damen, now get your ass moving and help me.”

Only for Laurent to find the dogs back at his place, Nicaise cuddled between them as the five of them watched Finding Nemo on the TV. 

Next time they went to the beach, Laurent retaliated by daring Damen to build a sandcastle only for him to stomp and destroy it with his feet once he had finished.

A stupid game? Yes. 

A dangerous game? Yes.

Inappropriate and reckless and sometimes even mildly harmful to other people ~~and themselves~~. They were inconsiderate and irresponsible, but they were happy. 

During those weeks in Italy, they were in fact, the happiest they ever got to be. They wouldn’t trade those loving summer evenings planning and scheming and pretending the world belonged to them for anything else in the world. 

Perhaps, eventually, only for each other’s forgiveness. 

The worst came for Laurent when Damen dared him to dress up as a Spice Girl and dance to _Wannabe_ playing from a boombox on top of a random car in the middle of the street. 

If that wasn’t enough, after the humiliation of his life, Damen approached him laughing but was cut off by a voice coming up behind him, and Laurent wished he had been hit by a car instead. 

“Well,” Nicaise said, “This is interesting.”

_**TO BE CONTINUED...** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT 11/10:
> 
> I'm so sorry for the delay. This should have been posted yesterday but alas I had some issues :( here's a lovely Nicaise headcanon as an apology: Nic adores Disney movies, they are his comfort type of films. Specially Lilo & Stitch. 
> 
> ***
> 
> Well hello there, 
> 
> I hope everyone's had a good week. I just binged watched the whole season of The Haunting of Bly Manor and I must say I feel perfectly splendid. However, this chapter is very awfully long and so I decided to split it in two parts!
> 
> I hope you've enjoyed it as much as you seemed to enjoy our dear Fabio. I'm so so happy for the love he's receiving, so thank you! Thank you for your lovely comments, as well. They really make my days. Thank you as always, to Ellen, Ana and demon-friend for helping me get through the madness that is writing these silly boys and their game. 
> 
> In case it wasn't too clear, the first intro bit is a memory from Nicaise's POV. Also, I'm afraid to say I couldn't decide on a real Italian city because I don't trust myself to kill enough of my darlings (lolol) so if you were to ask me, Ravenel (and Nesson-Eloy, mentioned later on) are very similar to certain towns in Tuscany. I'd say they're both a mix of Florence, Lucca, Piombino and other areas like Volterra. The exception is the pastry shop L&D visit, as I took inspiration from the [New York Café](https://newyorkcafe.hu/en/) in Budapest.
> 
> "Every saint has a past, and every sinner has a future." quote by Oscar Wilde. 
> 
> Feedback and comments fully appreciated! You know where to find me: I'm [princesgambit](https://twitter.com/princesgambit) on twitter (where I spend most of my time) and [dearanemone](https://princesgambit.co.vu/) on tumblr.
> 
> Check out Linger's playlist on Spotify [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3xzKQO5iKGl5LmoLbJUxUq?si=SD0-xQXHQy6TuYFZ1NrkUg). 
> 
> No more from me, see you soon!


	13. Act II: Chapter 11 Pt. 2

Aimeric didn’t know what he was looking for exactly, but still that didn’t stop him from looking. 

He’d known Laurent for over ten years now, which meant he knew every little nuisance that could indicate a problem. If there was a hair out of place in Laurent’s head, Aimeric would spot it, it was that simple and yet that complicated. 

When it came to Laurent, the red alarms were so exquisitely hidden it was easy to miss them in the hustle and bustle of their respective routines. 

And yet, he still still knew; still felt it when something went very wrong. 

This time, he felt it the moment his messages went sent but undelivered and his calls straight to a voicemail machine that wasn’t even properly set up because Laurent hated those. 

He felt it the moment his emails remained unreplied, possibly even unopened and he couldn’t get a hold of his friend even at his office. 

The worst came, eventually, when he saw him at last, stepping out the elevator as his eyes landed on him, waiting by the door to his apartment. He had the same look he’d often had during college: that worn-out apathy, hollowed out on the melancholy face of those who slept poorly and were not kind to themselves. 

That was the first alarm. 

He’d waited until he’d convinced Laurent to take a shower before inspecting the place. Once he heard the bathroom door lock from the inside and the sound of the shower running, he moved as in autopilot, checking and expecting the worst. 

At first glance, everything seemed in place. 

A facade. 

The fridge was empty if not for bottles of sparkling water and opened jars of jam. A few things—the yogurt, the oat milk, the soft cheese and hummus—had expired even if they were completely sealed as new, which could only meant Laurent hadn’t touched his own food in days. The bread in the cupboard had grown mold and the fruit on the counter had flies roaming around. Aimeric got rid of everything; it wasn’t as bad as he’d thought, but still it was the second alarm. 

The third alarm was the carousel box hidden under the unmade bed with all the sheets and blankets crumpled and kicked out of the way in balls. 

The fourth alarm was an ashtray hidden behind a plant pot in the balcony and the lingering smell that confirmed it had been recently used, much to his disappointment. 

The fifth and last alarm was, however, when Laurent emerged with his hair still wet, wearing the single most depressing sweater to exist in his wardrobe. 

A dark gray knitted sweater that had been Auguste’s and continued to be, in spite of the years, too big for Laurent. The sleeves were too long, but he never bothered rolling them completely. 

Aimeric said nothing, but felt the bad feeling intensify inside of him. Whatever happened to make Laurent fall into another depressive hole had to be really bad. 

Thus they stared at each other for longer than was necessary, and it took everything in Aimeric not to pull his friend into a hug, or at least breach the gap between them just to have him closer. Since they were younger, Aimeric had always had the feeling that one day Laurent would slip away, and that would be the last he’d see of him.

And he couldn’t tell whether he himself had been a lonely boy for too long, or whether something else had grown inside him that made him _fear_ so much. 

The two years Laurent had spent in Italy were a reminder of how easily he could get lonely. Of how badly he’d always wanted a real friend, in spite of the time he spent reminding himself he didn’t need anyone. Not in school, not at home with all his older brothers. 

So, he feared, as he always did, when Laurent was present but still gone. Because Laurent’s pain always rubbed off on him, one way or another. And the red alarms were echoes of their losses. 

Déjà vu. Déjà vécu. 

After all, they were best friends. 

“What happened?” Aimeric asked. 

_Who did this to you?_

And best friends feared, because they loved. And they loved, simply because they could. 

_I will drag them to hell_ , he thought, _with my own bare hands._

***

“Stop it, Nicaise. I’m going home to change.”

“Please, don’t,” his laughter growing louder, “This is delightful. You and your not-so-little friend are really challenging...the status quo.”

Laurent crossed his arms over his chest. He said, “It’s not funny.” but it was incredibly funny and ridiculous which only made him feel more embarrassed. He had a pair of pigtails in his head, for fuck’s sake. 

“I think it is.” Then, turning to Damen, “So, do you have a name, tall and handsome?”

Laurent looked at Damen then, visibly uncomfortable for a second and yet charming as ever, dimples showing, he took Nicaise’s hand when offered, “My name's Damen.”

“Nicaise,” they shook hands briefly, just a few seconds before Nicaise let go, “It's a pleasure to meet the guy who can loosen up our darling Laurent.”

“Laurent has told me a lot about you,” Damen said politely.

When Nicaise smiled, it often reminded Laurent of the devil. This moment was one of those. “I trust he only mentioned the bad things.” 

“That’s enough,” Laurent interrupted, “Damen has to leave.”

“So soon? That’s a shame. Don't be afraid to stop by the apartment whenever you want, Damen.”

Damen nodded, again all polite smiles. Leaning closer, Laurent whispered, “You can leave now,” then waved him away with a hand like one would a pet or a child, “Go.” 

“Right,” a bit awkwardly, “It's been a pleasure, Nicaise.” then, sweet as he was, “Bye, Lo.”

And then there were two. 

“This ‘ _old friend’,_ Nicaise quoted with his fingers, “of yours—you seem very close.”

Laurent scratched a spot behind his ear with his index finger, pulled softly in his earlobe, sighed, “Not right now, Nic.”

“No, no,” he said, meeting his eyes, eyes curving into a small devilish smile, “I’ve let you be long enough and now I'm curious. He's very... _attractive_.”

Laurent pulled harder on his own earlobe, enough that it hurt but didn’t react to the pain. “I suppose.”

Nicaise’s voice turned softer, yet laced in complicity, “Could it be that he is an old boyfriend?”

“No,” he replied, sincerely, “We never—”

“But you wanted to.” 

_Yes._

Laurent said nothing. 

“And you still do.”

 ~~_Yes._ ~~ _I don’t know._ ~~_Yes._ ~~

_He rejected me. He broke my heart._

_And when I fell, it was for a long time, from a great height, and ruined my landing._

“Don't look so bloody frightened. Everyone has high school crushes, but not everyone gets to sleep with them years later. Good for you, slut.”

Dropping his head back, Laurent sighed, then closed his eyes as he said, “I hate you.”

“Get that dick on behalf of every gay man on this place, sweetheart.” And before Laurent could tell him to shove it, he spoke again, words so similar to Aimeric it was frightening, “If you don't fuck him soon, someone else will.”

Laurent turned his gaze back at Nicaise and pursed his lips, “I doubt he likes superficial rich brats.”

Smirking, “Should we bet on it then?”

“You know what? Fuck you.” 

“Don't fret, Laurent. He seems whipped too, which means no one will take him from you.”

_And when I fell, I fell alone._

_I cried so much I forgot how it felt not to be broken. To be whole and uncracked, a teapot with leaves inside._

“You're adorable when jealous, dear,” said Nicaise. “I bet he likes that.” 

~~_Does he?_ ~~

_I don’t understand now why, were he to hold me again in his hands, I wouldn’t fear being dropped._

_Only jumping._

***

Laurent’s eyes burned. 

He blinked several times, trying to ease the prickly feeling away, though it was useless. His eyes were dry and sore after staring at the computer’s screen for so long, and they demanded rest as well as his mind. 

Already a dark, sinister place, his mind. Only made worse by the huge loads of work he had been trying to get through since the morning, all surrounded by a mostly hysterical staff and underpaid whiny interns. Laurent wasn’t one to complain at work, mostly because he liked to keep busy and it was a good summer job that would add weight to his résumé, but the day had been too long and he was feeling his own body’s resentment, consequence of his own neglect.

He thought about the last time he’d been to the bathroom or gotten up for a cup of tea and found that he couldn't even remember it. 

With a sigh, Laurent took his glasses off, leaving them on the desk carefully before pressing his palms to his eye sockets and breathing slowly for a few seconds. He did a quick assessment of himself: his stomach had long stopped growling but the emptiness was still painful, however overcomed by the annoying sensation of a headache coming on from the way his forehead hurt when pressing two fingers to a single spot above his left eyebrow. His neck was tense and his back and ass ached, inner thighs numb from sitting on an uncomfortable office chair for longer than he usually would. 

He rubbed his eyes and the skin below them softly with his middle fingers, then tapped and rubbed on the inner corners. 

What time was it, anyway? He was one of the last one left after the hurricane, along with the translators and his own boss. Laurent could hear her aggressively typing and cursing from time to time, then talking to her plant about certain writers being complete assholes and certain fellow editors being incompetents. 

If he wasn’t so tired, he’d enjoy it way more than he was. But all his brain could do was laugh quietly and hope no one else noticed. 

With his glasses back on, he considered leaning his head on the cool surface of his desk and do nothing for a minute or two, but before he could decide, there was a cold hand on his shoulder, startling him. 

His boss, a woman named Halvik, walked around to face him, then eyed him for a moment before asking, “Did you finish that sheet I asked you for?”

Laurent nodded, “It’s all done for French, and half for Spanish.” 

“Good,” she sighed. She was probably more tired than he was, “Send me a copy through email and go home. Thank you for today.” 

By the time Laurent had finished writing and sending the email, he was sure he had lost at least a good quarter of his brain cells, or at least kept them irreparably damaged. He turned off the monitors and picked up his things, the same ritual of everyday, while checking his phone for the first time in a few hours. 

He had several messages from his group chat with his friends, an email from his mom with pictures of Clementine and miscellaneous notifications that he deleted without reading because he couldn’t be bothered. 

He’d been texting Damen earlier, but then got consumed by work. Biting his lip, he made it to the elevator thinking of a response when his phone buzzed in his hand. A new message. 

_D: are you still at the office?? It's almost midnight._

_L: editor's crisis. I thought this job would be drama free but turns out most writers consider melodrama a personality trait._

The message didn’t send right away, the connection being too weak as the elevator descended. Once outside the building, however, he walked a few steps towards his Vespa before receiving another message almost immediately. 

_D: they’re artists, what were you expecting?_

Laurent laughed. Half snort, half laughter. His fingers were already moving on the screen to reply, when he heard a voice ahead of him. 

“Did you like my joke?” 

Looking up, he thought for a minute that he was seeing things. 

“Damen?”

Damen, or his hallucination of him, was leaning against his parked Vespa, a sly smile adorning his face. 

“Hello stranger.”

Surprise, disbelief, exhaustion-induced-confusion, “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to see you,” Damen said, “Is it wrong that I came?”

Inside his chest, Laurent’s heart either cartwheeled or was pushed downhill. He could feel it roll and roll and roll and he was bracing himself for a wall or an uncomfortable stop that never came. 

Odd. 

“No,” his cheeks felt hot, but still he chuckled as he glanced downwards, walking closer, “You’re so silly.”

“I was just—” Damen started, then trailed off, “You seemed very stressed today.” 

He shook his head, “It was nothing too bad,” then let out a sigh he couldn’t hold, “But it was a first” 

Damen bopped his nose, making him look up at him, “Have you had dinner?” And then, smiling a dangerous smile that could burn down a whole town, “I promise to let you eat this time.”

 _Fuck him,_ he thought. 

Laurent faked a smile, forcing his middle finger up. 

Laughing, “Alright, let’s get some food.” 

Damen walked away from the Vespa, and to Laurent’s confusion, he crossed the parking space to the car right in front of them. “Oh right,” he said, “They gave me this rental because I was taking too many cabs and the financial team got fed up with the receipts.”

Laurent raised an eyebrow. Rental? It looked brand new. “Show off.”

The doors beeped unlocked, Damen watching him with a foot on the driver’s seat, “Come on, get inside.”

“But,” he looked back at the scooter, as if it was _expectant_ , “The Vespa…”

“I’ll give you a ride tomorrow,” Damen replied, “It’s okay, Lo.” 

_It’s okay, Lo._

His own brain mocked him. But he was too tired, and deep inside, too curious, and so he found himself back into a passenger seat, watching Damen drive into a night of impossibilities. 

Déjà vu. Déjà vécu. 

After all this time, this was something Laurent wouldn’t have ever thought of experiencing again. Even when he had daydreamed of their possible encounters and how awful it’d go, or if he wondered of all those alternative plotlines where their courses didn’t drift apart but rather closer, his mind never went back to the passenger seat. 

Back then, he’d always felt as an outsider in his own friendship with Damen. He was always worried about being more a nuisance than an actual friend. 

He was worried about so many things and neither of them seemed to make any sense to him now. Was this growing up or was it grief? Or was it both? 

Was it the wisdom that came from loss rather than gain? 

He felt odd, almost sad, but it wasn’t nostalgia. Rather something akin to pity for that younger version of himself, waiting, hoping for a look in edgewise. 

Trying to spot shooting stars and satellites from his window, chewing gum, trying to make Damen laugh because his laughter was bright and loud and open and beautiful and it made him feel like he could swallow the world whole if he just were to try. 

Laurent turned his head to Damen as he drove, and it was like opening the door to a thousand memories merged as one. There was Damen driving him home from school when Auguste was sick and couldn’t go. And then when they went to the beach together so many summers ago. When they went to that cursed coffee shop and the mall and the aquarium and the next city and the one right after that.

He saw them; those Damen and Laurent. He heard them sing, and fight, and play silly games as they ate junk food and talked about life and death and the weather. 

_At night, things are quieter, the walls of your mind tend to open._

When he closed his eyes, they disappeared. 

Fast forward four years, and they were strangers with familiar faces. But fast forward a bit more, and tonight, in this light, with a song in the background going on about diving into things rather impossible, Laurent thought it felt a little like coming home. 

To find that things have changed in one’s absence, but it’s a bit of a superposition; you can still see the roots, the first, the original, the moments overlapping one after the other. 

A million angles of Damen’s face, and yet it all came to a constellation of moles and long eyelashes underneath city lights. He knew Damen the way one knew a memory; a lingering aspect, a vanishing wish. 

Not fully. Not yet. 

But things had changed. There had been a switch too subtle, a strangeness around them. For the first time in his life, he looked at Damen with such an ease it was concerning, except he didn’t have the energy to figure out why.

Was he happy?

“What do you want to eat?” Damen, his Damen asked after a while. 

“Anything,” he shrugged, then yawned, “I’m so tired I don't care.” 

It’s not like there were many options so late anyway. Had he been alone, he probably wouldn’t have eaten more than a few crackers with cheese to make it worth it. 

“Okay, you can rest, Lo.”

Humming, he kept his eyes closed, “I’m afraid that if I fall asleep here, you won’t be able to wake me up until tomorrow.” 

“Guess I’ll bring you a blanket then.”

Laurent laughed again, he couldn’t help it. His brain was all mashed peas. He opened his eyes in time to see —more or less, he still didn’t want to put on his glasses— Damen taking an exit towards the town’s only McDonald’s with a drive-through window. 

“So,” Damen said, once they were cue to order, “What inspires you?”

“Twenty chicken nuggets,” Laurent said, without even thinking of it, “And two packs of sweet and sour dip.”

“You’re a child.”

“Please,” he sighed, felt himself pout and remembered how Damen had called it excessive, “I’m tired.”

Shaking his head a little, Damen smirked and proceeded to order. Once they had their food, they drove to a park nearby and sat on the hood of the car to eat. 

“Water?” Laurent said, glasses back on his face, eyeing Damen’s choice of drink, “Really?”

“What? It's better than that nasty orange candy trash you like.”

“Your lack of taste appalls me.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes.”

Grinning, “You still like me though.”

_Took a breath, let it go._

_Felt the moment settle so_

_I couldn't wait to tell you why_

_I'm standin' here with this awkward smile_

Of course he did. It sounded simple. But all along, his mind was repeating the same line over and over again. 

_I know I’m gonna die of this._

“Sometimes,” he breathed out, a little quietly, “One out of ten.”

“What about the other nine times?”

That was also simple. Easy. He smiled, looking up to the sky, “You make me mad.”

“Well, that’s mutual.”

“So we hate each other nine times out of ten, then.”

“Do we?”

“Isn't it the point of the game?”

“I'm not talking about the game.”

That was when Laurent finally looked down to find Damen already looking at him. There was a pang of regret, a bit of shyness and fear from his part. But the emotions in Damen’s eyes were completely different. The way he held himself was different.

It wasn’t just casual, playful teasing. It wasn’t serious, either but...new. He’d never looked at him that way before. 

_What do you want?_ He wanted to ask. _From me?_

_What do you see, when you look at me?_

Laurent swallowed. The answer, whatever it was, escaped him. It was there, he could feel it. And still he couldn’t...understand. It seemed to be another language Laurent didn’t speak one word of. “Right.”

Damen frowned, then poked his cheek, “Why are you making that face?”

“What face?”

“You’re looking at your fries like they personally attacked you.”

He looked down at his sad, late-night order of fries who had done him no harm but somehow ended up being the subject of his frustration, “They’re soggy.” 

Damen took the fries from his hands, swapped them with his, “You can have mine. They’re still hot.”

“You don’t care?”

Shaking his head, Damen rubbed the spot in between his eyebrows with a thumb, “But stop frowning.”

_I could drown myself in someone like you_

_I could dive so deep I never come out_

Laurent relaxed his own features, then took a fry to his mouth. It was in fact, hot and salty and good. He smiled a small smile, “Thank you.”

And then,

“For tonight.” 

And the days before that. And for the days to come, too. 

_I thought it was impossible_

Damen stole a fry, then winked and smiled as he put it in his mouth, “No problem, Lo.” 

_But you make it possible_

They sat there for a while, even after having finished their food. It had been a very hot day, and so the breeze was rather gentle. Soothing. They talked for a bit, and then settled in comfortable silence, each to their thoughts.

Once his belly was full, though, Laurent had a hard time staying awake. He felt as though he had taken a somnifer of some kind, but it was just his body disobeying him and giving in to exhaustion. 

So he closed his eyes for a little bit, telling himself it’d be just a minute or two, his head coming to rest on Damen’s shoulder. 

It shouldn’t have happened. It shouldn’t have been this way. It shouldn’t have been at all. But they were there and it was them. It would always have to be them. In a pool, in a park, on the hood of a car or on a rooftop. That would never change. 

Whether by choice or by force, they’d always drown. 

“I really like this song,” he whispered, quietly, tapping his foot along with the rhythm. It was the same as before, seemingly repeating again as the playlist looped. 

_Somebody told me and I think they're right_

_There is a change on its way tonight_

“You like all the songs,” whispered Damen.

“That’s not true,” he argued, although weakly. 

“Says the walking jukebox.”

“Music is to me like honey is to the bees.”

“Poetic, too.”

Laurent felt the moment Damen shifted, his head turned slightly so. Opening his eyes, he made himself pull away so he could look at Damen. He was watching him closely, fondly. 

“Let’s go home,” he said softly. 

“Okay.”

Damen pulled him forward, then. Slowly, softly. He pressed the smallest, chastest kiss on his lips, and Laurent lost himself to it. 

He didn’t pull away and didn’t kiss back. He just took it, his heart selfishly deciding to keep it forever, till the end of his days. It was sweet, tender, caring, affectionate and the memory would possibly make him cry one day. 

But tonight it didn’t. Tonight it happened and then again, it didn’t. 

Tonight it belonged there; it lived and died within them, between them. 

And he pleaded, of course, for it to linger.

_Somebody told me and I think they're right_

_There is a change on its way tonight_

_And I feel its so_

_But I fear it though_

***

A package arrived for him the next day, while he worked. Special delivery, the guy said, and made him sign with his finger on a screen before handing him a neatly packed white box with the name of a renowned delicatessen shop. A little note on top, bold, rushed handwriting. 

_Don't work too hard and remember to eat and stay hydrated!_

_— Tuo, Damen._

Laurent smiled. He felt everything. All of it at once, so hard it nearly knocked him over. But he smiled. 

***

Damen and Laurent jumped together, one way or another. 

It wasn’t a choice more than it was a game; one they did not know how to play. 

It wasn’t a game more than it was entering their bubble; and a secret passage to a rooftop.

They were walking back home after a day full of dares when Damen had asked if they could stop by his workplace, claiming to have forgotten something on his desk. 

Technically, they shouldn’t be wandering through the empty building so late at night. 

Officially, they were just going inside to retrieve the thing and then he would walk Laurent home. 

Unofficially and literally, this is where they had ended; inside the tower of Damen’s office and through a small, hidden door that led them to the rooftop. Being the boss’ son always had its perks, and one of them was having the masterkeys of the entire place. 

The door was small enough for a child, so they had to crouch down in order to enter what was a spiral of stairs full of dust and spiders. There weren’t any lights, so they had to use the flashlights of their cellphones to be able to see anything at all. 

Staring up at what probably was four to five flights of stairs, Laurent asked, his voice echoing, “How did you discover this place?” 

“Well, it wasn't too hard,” Damen shrugged, and up they went. “There was a key labeled as _‘rooftop’_ but no door leading to it. Eventually I stayed doing some over time and took the time to explore since everyone was gone. Then I found the door.”

“Hypothetically speaking, if you were about to murder me,” Laurent said casually, “Couldn’t you do it in a place with less spiders?”

Teasingly, “Why, you scared, De Vere?”

“I’m not a fan of the daddy long legs crawling on my back.”

“Spiders are harmless, unlike you.”

“Careful there, I might push you down the stairs.”

“If you do, you’ll miss the view at the top.”

His calves ached, as the steps were too tall and blocky and so he had to make a great effort to climb them one after another. His nose prickled and he wanted to sneeze but he was too busy trying not to focus on the many, many spiders surrounding them and the fact that _this could actually be a good place to hide a body_ , and then, _what if we do find a body_.

Relief settled in once they reached a second door to the top, and it took them a minute to catch their breaths before Damen used another key and swung it open. 

A second later, Laurent was completely lost to an endless starry sky. 

He had never seen such a thing before, there were usually too many lights to be able to spot more than a few stars at a time. But up there on that rooftop, it was all completely dark. He could see the streetlights beyond them, but it was almost midnight and the world was all mostly shut down. 

Except for them. 

He was so enthralled by the view that he barely noticed Damen moving around him, lighting up candles and setting blankets on the floor, even turning on a bluetooth speaker with soft music playing. There was a bottle of prosecco and a grazing box, neatly packed on the space between the blankets. Two plates and two glasses waiting. 

A few years ago it had been beer and snacks. Tonight it would be melon wrapped in prosciutto, ciabatta bread and their glasses filled to the top with a different kind of fizzy drink. 

It was silly to think they’d grown when he still felt his heart beating and swooning like a teenage girl. But they had indeed both grown and changed so much it reflected not only on their tastes, but also on the way they spoke and held themselves even together. 

Tonight, twenty two against twenty eight seemed more a fact and not an obstacle. In a month or so, he’d turn twenty three. And suddenly it didn’t mean anything. 

The parallelism between past and present was dizzying. It felt too surreal and yet so tangible, like affection that lingered. An old song that never feels old but never brand new; the notes carrying an echo of the years passing by through the lenses of the same feeling over and over again, leaving one dazzled. 

Love, that lingered. Love, like _love_ , and the colour gold. Love that was not red nor pink nor black or white but gold like stars, and the story they told in constellations. 

“Surprise.” Damen said, at last, standing before him and smiling a bit shyly, “Dinner with a view.”

Laurent felt breathless, more now than he had back then. Nervousness manifested itself in heartbeats deep in his stomach. He said, “You prepared all this for me?” 

“Yeah, I—when I came here, I just...thought of you.” even in the faint candlelight, Laurent could still see his blushing and he himself blushed in return. “I wanted to share this with you.”

_This isn’t real. It can’t be._

Oh but everything with Damen was impossible. In good ways and bad ways, the contradiction never ceased. 

Laurent toyed with the rings in his fingers, rotating a single gold band in his index with his thumb, “You flatter me.” 

Damen gestured to the cozy nest of blankets he’d made on the floor, “Please.”

Laurent sat, throwing a blanket over his shoulders and trying to pull his hair in a small bun to avoid the wind getting it on his face. Damen sat right beside him and opened the bottle of prosecco, filling both glasses and handing him one. 

Even up there and with the music, they could still hear the sea. 

It seemed closer than it really was. Ironically, just as they were now. They ate and chatted, and it wasn’t awkward per se, just a bit strange. They were both in different places, but Laurent had a hard time trying to figure out where exactly Damen was. 

Every time their eyes met it was as if they were waiting for the other to speak up. To translate into words the constant pull that attracted them together ever since they’d found each other again in that bar. It was there when they were apart and it pulsed even sitting mere inches from each other. Almost like a heart. 

If he were a bit braver, Laurent would ask Damen how it felt for him; did his smile also bring his thoughts to ruins? Did he ache all over when they laughed together? 

Did he wish to kiss him just as badly as Laurent wanted to in that very second? Even knowing it probably wasn’t right. Knowing that repeating a story didn’t change the ending and love couldn’t be forced onto someone else with potions and spells or prayers. 

_You need to tell me,_ he’d say _, you need to tell me because I never know when we’re playing the game and when we’re not. I never know whether this is happening to you too or if it’s just in my head._

_I once swore to erase you from my life, now tell me if you rewrote yourself into my pages._

What if he didn’t want this? What if he’d gotten it all wrong from the beginning? Damen had never felt anything for him; they had always been just friends. And Laurent had been young, too young to understand properly the root of his own feelings. Too young to even consider Damen’s, blindsided by a teenage reverie. 

He knew better now. What they’d had so far in the past days had been enchanting, which only meant it wouldn’t last. 

~~We kissed.~~

He knew better now. They could just be friends. 

~~We kissed.~~

He knew better now. Laurent had Fabio. Even if they weren’t exactly dating, Fabio felt right. 

Fabio, who was away and sending him postcards of places he’d never seen before. Writing him quotes and poems on the back. Saying things like _I miss you. I think of you. I can’t wait to see you._

Fabio, who had always been gentle and kind, who’d always wanted him. 

Not as a game. 

~~We kissed.~~

Did Damen have anyone? Well he hadn’t asked. He’d thought of it too many times but he couldn’t say the words. Because what if he had? 

~~We kissed.~~

Did it matter? He couldn’t yet make up his mind.

~~We kissed.~~

_Do I want it to matter?_

~~We kissed.~~

Maybe he did. Maybe he would always want impossible nights and impossible things, like a beautiful man pointing out and naming constellations by his side. 

Maybe there were feelings and thoughts we couldn’t help. Not even if we ran away from them. It turned out, eventually they caught up with us. 

He could be Damen’s friend. But Laurent wasn’t ~~that~~ stupid. He could be more than a friend, if only Damen were to ask. 

_Do I want him to ask?_

“There’s the summer triangle,” Damen said, and Laurent looked up to follow where his finger was pointing, “You have Altair, Cygnus and Vega.”

“When did you learn so much about stars?” Laurent asked, A chilly wind passed, and he found himself shifting a fraction closer to Damen, although involuntarily. 

Damen shrugged, “I had a bit of an astronomy phase.”

“Really? What a nerd.”

Damen scoffed, “Look who’s talking.”

“Maybe we swapped places and I’m one of the cool kids now.”

“Riding your shiny black Vespa around town.”

“With my rings and all.”

“Do you want to hear a story?”

“Tell me a story.”

_Tell me what we are._

_Tell me what’s on your mind._

_Tell me you want me._

_But I might not believe you._

“Have you heard of the lovers Altair and Vega?” Damen asked. Laurent shook his head. It did sound familiar, but he couldn’t recall any specific details. “It comes from a chinese legend that inspired the Star Festival in Japan. Basically Vega was a celestial Princess and she fell in love with mortal Altair. Her father didn’t approve of their relationship and punished them by transforming them into stars, separated by the milky way. The Princess cried so much that her father allowed them to meet only once, on the seventh day of the seventh month. It is said now that if it rains on the seventh of July, then the lovers couldn’t reunite, and the raindrops are actually Vega’s tears.” 

Frowning, Laurent said, “They should have killed the father.”

“Oh come on.” 

“That would have solved the issue and they could have lived happily ever after.”

Disbelievingly, “How is patricide the one solution you come up with?” 

“The father clearly didn’t care for his daughter’s happiness so it would have been an understandable sacrifice.”

“ _Laurent_.”

“Damen.”

“You’re terrible.”

Quietly, he said, “It must be way more terrible to be so close to the one you love and still always far away. Torture, even.” 

Just as quietly, “Yes, it must be.” 

“Did it rain this year? In July.”

“I don’t remember.” 

“I hope they found each other again.” 

“Just like we did?”

Laurent looked at him then. Damen’s eyes were on his, bright and open and yet with certain reluctance. A certain fear.

_Shyness._

~~_I’ve been on that side before. In a pool, surrounded by magic._ ~~

~~_I’ve seen this all before, but the ending was wrong._ ~~

His lips grew awake again. Perhaps it was the alcohol. Perhaps not. Instead of an answer, Laurent asked, “Are you courting me?”

Damen smiled a little, then looked down at the empty plates in front of them, “What gave it away?”

He was woozy. “The cellar spiders and the expensive cheese.”

~~We kissed.~~

“Well I always pamper my dates.”

Laurent snorted softly, but he could feel his hands shaking a little. If he held his glass any tighter, he’d probably break it. “So?”

Damen’s eyes found him again. “Would you let me?” 

And after all this inner turmoil and looping thoughts, it came down to a simple answer. One he knew well. It had been harder to accept this time around, because he knew better. Because he was no longer seventeen admiring an older Damen from afar.

He was sitting right beside him, feeling the warmth emanating from his existence itself. And Laurent understood that Damen was too important to him. He was necessary. 

He smelled his cologne, musky and fresh, and he forgot everything. His better judgement, his rational, logical, well-sought defensive plans. 

Reduced to nothing at all. 

“I would.”

“If?”

“If you kissed me right now.”

Laurent saw the moment when the words landed on Damen. He saw the surprise and the challenge and the daring smile but also he saw the seriousness of it. It wasn’t a game, and yet it felt like one.

_I’m not a game to be played, or a prize to win or an obstacle to overcome. So what does that make me?_

Damen leaned over and Laurent let him, paralyzed on the spot. It wasn’t until their lips were one breath away from brushing that he pulled away. 

_It makes me a fool._

“So you would.” 

“I—” Damen said, smiled a little in his confusion, “I’m confused?”

Laurent nodded, leaving his glass and warming up his hands with his blanket. They were trembling, still. He could feel his heart in his throat when he mustered all the honesty he could and said, “Me, too.”

Softly, “Hey,” and when Laurent didn’t look up, Damen reached over, brushing that one stubborn curl out of his face before grabbing one of his hands softly, “Lo. We don’t—we can just….enjoy tonight.”

Damen’s hand was so warm, gently rubbing a thumb over his knuckles. He’d done it before after their dinner in that restaurant, but now it felt totally different. Now it felt like it had a meaning Laurent couldn’t understand. Another of many or more of the same, he couldn’t tell. 

It felt right, the moment their fingers linked together. Fitting like puzzle pieces. 

Like star-crossed lovers. 

“Okay,” he whispered, nodding. Damen would have kissed him again. There were so many words missing, and as someone who studied and worked with words, the lack of them often frustrated him. 

But this time, he thought, words would fail anyway. He could think of a thousand different words and never find enough that could explain exactly what was happening on that rooftop, in that light, with two people that were as scared of falling as they were of landing. 

They grew quiet after that, and slowly, Laurent’s faint heart managed to beat a bit more steadily. He asked Damen to tell him more about the stars, and he complied, showing him Gemini and Aries. Eventually, his head found its place on Damen’s shoulder, and Damen’s arm found its place around him. 

What if they were meant to be together, after all? 

Through the speakers, a song started playing. He didn’t know it, he’d never heard that voice before. But it was almost as if hearing himself from outside his body.

_“Can I sing this to you? I’ve got a thing about you.”_

_I wasn’t infatuated,_ he thought. _It was never going to go away._

_“And it won’t go away”_

_But I don't want to fall alone from this cliff._

_“It won’t go away.”_

_So will you fall into the abyss with me?_

_“It won’t go away.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, I can't believe it's been a week already!
> 
> I don't have much to say today. To be honest, I haven't been feeling good regarding my writing lately. I'm not very happy with this chapter overrall, even though it's super long and important for the plot, but I do hope that it's at least a tiny bit enjoyable and not super disappointing. 
> 
> Anygay, thank you all for your beautiful comments, they do mean a lot to me. Thanks to my lovely cheerleaders, Ellen, Ana & demon-friend for not letting me die trying to write this whole mess.
> 
> “Took a breath, let it go / Felt the moment settle so / I couldn't wait to tell you why / I'm standin' here with this awkward smile" & "I know I’m gonna die of this" & "I could drown myself in someone like you / I could dive so deep I never come out" & "I thought it was impossible / But you make it possible" & "Somebody told me and I think they're right / There is a change on its way tonight / And I feel its so / But I fear it though" lyrics taken from [Impossible](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kg6aD8EGcKw) by Nothing But Thieves. 
> 
> “Can I sing this to you? / I’ve got a thing about you" & "And it won’t go away / It won't go away / It won't go away" lyrics taken from [Real Love Song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aiAg4OO_1hk) by Nothing But Thieves. 
> 
> Fun fact, as if it isn't obvious, I'm a huge fan of NBT and these two songs from their upcoming album Moral Panic just about describe the entire plot of this story. I started writing it back in May, way before any of these two were released, so I believe at least one of them is spying on my brain or my Google Drive or both (lolol) but seriously, listen to the songs because they are AMAZING! 
> 
> That's it from me, see you next week!


	14. Act II: Chapter 12

_“I need you to make us a contract.”_

_“A contract? What for?”_

_“The game. I’ve written the rules and Damen agreed to sign it.”_

_“I could help you mak—”_

_“No. Auguste, it needs to be a real contract. You’re gonna be a lawyer. I’ll pay you if you want.”_

_“You don’t need to pay me. But I want to make sure you know of the implications.”_

_“Of course. It was my idea, after all.”_

_“Very good, then I'll have it ready for you tomorrow.”_

_**_

In the city of Marlas at 3:00 pm on March 9th, 2002, Laurent De Vere, ID number 29.180.989 with legal address at 41 Regency Gardens and Damianos Akielos, ID number 25.130.383 with legal address at 42 Regency Gardens, have agreed on the realization of The Carousel Game from which the following clauses will be taken:

  1. _Dares cannot be repeated. They can be similar in form but neither can dare the same thing twice._
  2. _Cheating isn’t allowed. Cheating would be considered yielding and therefore whoever gets caught will lose the game._
  3. _Help from outsiders is allowed as long as they respect the rules of the game, ex: NO CHEATING._
  4. _No deadlines to complete a dare unless specifically stated during the dare. Ex. A full day is 24 hours, no more no less._
  5. _Don't dare something you wouldn't do yourself._



Both parties declare that it is their full and unrestricted will reflected in this contract.

Auguste De Vere, ID number 25.180.808, with legal address at 41 Regency Gardens, is held as a witness and signs it together with the contracting parties.

Should any of the agreeing parties involved yield, understood in this context as ‘giving up’ or ‘surrender’ in the favour of the other, this contract will become automatically null. 

**

_“Be my friend forever.”_

_“Lo, you don’t need to dare me that.”_

_“I do. This way it’s in the contract and so you have to do it.”_

_“Alright. I’ll be your friend, Lo. Forever.”_

**

Forever. 

_“I only hate you as much as you hate me.”_

Forever.

**

_“We signed a contract, once.”_

_“It’s not the same thing.”_

_“It is signed and stamped and registered by a lawyer. How is it any different than this?”_

_“We were different people.”_

_“Quite. Turns out you became an asshole and I became a swiss roll.”_

**

_“Tell me you want this. Tell me you’re not miserable.”_

_**_

_“Are we bound by anything else than painful memories?”_

_“Yes. Happy memories.”_

_“Same difference.”_

***

And how happy those were. Glorious, even. 

And what was glory, but what made ancient cities go to war? What made musicians play and writers write? What made heroes go alone to die?

Honour. Pride. Love. 

Loss.

Laurent and Damen were bound by all of those. But what always lingered, in spite of the years and shared tragedies, were the moments where they shone so bright it was blinding, and peace reigned inside their walls. The moments they cried out of laughter, and fought out of passion but not spite. When they danced on top of cars and gazed at the stars and promised to wear each other’s names in affection, not vain. 

When the words they recited became a language; every whisper, every sound, every breath out of place became transformed into a word, available only then, to them. 

When they were undoubtedly, rightfully glorious, without knowing they were. Out of love, instinct and principles. 

But love, just as glory, is futile unless we die in it, with it; bask in it as we give a final breath. Let us part with it, or give in to grief. The same way musicians made melodies of broken souls and writers made stories of winding journeys, following the eventual crash and burn of a last stretched out second of glory, enough to ignite a spark. 

The kiss at the end of the page. The silent goodbye. The last ray of sunshine that lingers after dusk. 

If you asked Laurent and Damen what was their last second of glory, they probably wouldn’t be able to put it into words. Such a broad definition, so hard to choose from. But they would know, because the memory echoed in their heartbeats so loud they will go deaf with the sound of it. They would know, and yet they wouldn’t say.

It started off innocently, as they stood side by side admiring a Monet piece in one of the many museums in Ravenel. Their shoulders were an inch from touching; their fingers brushing, although not completely accidentally. 

It was also a kind of game to see who would cave in first and hold the other’s hand. So far, neither of them had. Confessing one’s emotions was as raw as confessing one’s sins, in fact, sometimes they were the very same thing. 

Magic. Blasphemy. 

Affection. ~~Affliction .~~

“You know,” Laurent said, still staring at the painting, pastel water lilies serenading his senses, as Damen passed him the box behind their backs, “If we get caught, we could go to jail.”

Damen snorted, “What’s with you and us going to jail?”

“At the rate we’re going,” Laurent said, feeling the cold metal of the box in his hands, “it’ll happen sooner or later.”

“Technically speaking, it is _you_ who’ll go to jail.”

“Bold of you to assume I’m not dragging you to hell with me.”

“A threat?”

Smirking, “A promise.”

“Hell doesn’t sound too bad,” Damen said, finally turning to him and smiling, “Let’s go there.”

Laurent rotated the box in his hands, then started walking backwards, facing Damen as they stood watching him. A taunting smile still on his lips, “Come on, then.” 

The moment Damen stepped towards him, Laurent switched to running forwards out of the room they were in. He heard Damen’s laughter behind him and felt himself laugh too, because he was being ridiculously childish, and he found that he didn’t care in the slightest. 

People in the halls stood out of the way as they ran, with a security guard yelling at them to not run, but getting lost in the crowd of tourists before he could catch up with them at all. 

He was running, but it felt as though everything was happening in slow motion; his whole being shaking with an echo that said, _I’ve done this before_. And he had, countless times. Through the school halls with Aimeric, in the mall with Damen, in college with Nicaise and in the airport when their plane almost left them after they confused the gates. 

In the hospital, trying to find Auguste. 

A superposition. A palimpsest. 

With every pained breath Laurent took, he felt a little more like he knew who he was — reaching over that gap inside his own mind, becoming one with his past. But it was there for a moment, and then gone. Short-circuit. 

Laurent led them up a flight of stairs and through a zigzag of corridors that held the european sculpture collection, only stopping when they reached the last room with a huge piece of Apollo in the middle, Damen on his heels, almost colliding onto him abruptly. 

Damen’s breath was ragged, “Tell me, was that necessary?”

But then again, so was his, “Not at all. Did you break a sweat, Damianos?”

“You’re not that fast yet.”

“How come you didn’t catch up with me then?”

“I was letting you win.”

Laurent hummed, “Is that part of pampering your dates?”

“That one is reserved to whiny sore losers who also happen to be blond and terrible sighted.”

“Very specific type, a bit more detail and I would have said potential victims.”

“Now that’s a bit mean.”

“You seemed to like that.”

“I haven’t denied it.”

“Nor will you?”

“Nor will I.”

Laurent’s eyes wandered downwards, finding an interesting spot between the inner curves of his shoes. He had the carousel box pressed hard against one side of his left leg. He didn’t want to smile, but with Damen he couldn’t stop. It was a reflex, an automatic response. His whole body reflecting what he felt on the inside. 

When he looked up again, he said, “Masochist.” 

Arching an eyebrow, “And you’re a sadist.”

His smile didn’t fade. “What a duo we make.” And before Damen could say anything else, Laurent took a step closer, ~~like a lover~~ ~~,~~ and whispered, ever so softly, “Don’t be jealous now.”

Laurent felt Damen’s breath hitch before he turned on his heels to face the statue, and very deliberately, set the box on the floor. There were three marbled pedestals to the platform that held the main statue in the room, and he climbed them slowly yet decisively. 

Behind him, Damen said, “Be careful, Laurent, please.”

“I so happen to be more graceful than you, my dear brute.”

“Just don't destroy any ancient sculptures.”

Once balanced on both his two feet, Laurent took a second to listen to the harsh, strong beatings of his own heart. 

_You’re alive,_ it said. 

_You’re so alive._

_What does it feel like?_

_Wrong_ , he thought. But he didn’t mean it that way. 

Wrong, in the sense that it was real. And reality sometimes was, for Laurent, strangely ambiguous. Some would argue, particularly those who stick with logic and the tangible. But sometimes he just felt like he was roaming about a world that was washed out of its colours, and now they were so vivid it could pass for a dream. 

Carefully, Laurent cupped Apollo’s face with both of his hands. The stone was smooth under his fingers. Cold as ice. It felt so much like a real face, though. It looked so much like a man he’d like to love. 

_In another life, perhaps, I would kneel for a God._

_I would swear honour to my people._

_I would rise King._

Laurent touched the strokes of it’s hair, the neck, the lips. His hands sliding down to trace Apollo’s nose, gliding over unmoving shoulders. Forever stuck in time. Alone, and beautiful, unable to feel a thing. 

To exist, without really existing. Mythology was so much like religion. They both tried desperately to give meaning to something that was not easily grasped by the mind. Beauty and vain and sin and knowledge as fear. Terror. Submission. 

Angels. Devils. God. The unforgivable. 

All that wasn’t real, but existed. All that existed, but wasn’t real. 

Like a statue, or the image of a crying Virgin. Or himself. 

“He’s very beautiful, don’t you think?” he whispered, “I wish I knew,” leaning forward, he placed a hand over it’s cheek, “The color of his eyes.”

_They are warm._

_And they’re looking right through me._

Damen had said, earlier that day, when they were trying to toss grapes into each other’s mouths, laughing at how badly it’d be if they choked, that they should go to the museum. And then, just as they were making their way through the Monet exhibition, he whispered in his ear. 

_“Kiss a statue. Any statue.”_

And he’d been game. He was and would always be game. However he couldn’t tell whether he was amused or hurt by the dare. What if he’d said, instead, _“Kiss me.”?_

_“Be mine.”_

What would he have done, then? 

_You’ve alive. What does it feel like?_

_Absurd._

Closing the space between him and the statue, Laurent closed his eyes and kissed Apollo. Chastly, tenderly, almost as if saying, _Hello. Nice to meet you. Be mine, now, for a second._

There was the sound of Damen’s instant camera as he made a picture, and he knew his little love affair with a greek deity had been immortalized forever. One day someone might just find the polaroid in between piles of rubbish and wonder the story behind it. 

They’d wonder about the strange blonde androgynous boy kissing Apollo like a lover and his small ordinary life that fed off the illussion of art. 

And that was one way to be remembered. 

He pulled away slowly, distantly aware of Damen’s eyes on him as he did so. He didn’t want to look back, so he stood there, holding Apollo’s empty face for a minute longer, knowing that it was risky. Knowing that he should just jump back down and laugh and dare Damen to swim in one of the fountains in the Museum’s gardens. 

Laurent just couldn’t move. He wished he could tell what Damen was thinking. He wished he could tell what he felt, really. He wished he could kiss him, but without it being a dare or a condition or anything that didn’t mean his feelings weren’t entirely, completely real and unadulterated and unfiltered. 

Because they were. They were so pure, sometimes they turned wicked. 

When he finally turned back, Damen’s expression surprised him. He was watching him, as if he himself was a God, a King, a piece in the museum. Something too beautifully terrifying to be real. 

He found himself smiling shyly, “What is it?” 

_What do you see?_

Damen said nothing. His eyes were wide open, a polaroid between his middle and index finger. He extended out his other hand for Laurent to grab as he descended from the pedestals. Laurent held onto him as he stepped down, careful not to accidentally trip. 

Once they were facing each other again, Damen shook his head a little. “Nothing.” And then, “Let’s go, before anyone sees us.”

Damen didn’t let go off his hand. Not as they walked through the crowds and out of the museum, or as they strolled down the small gardens that surrounded it. He didn’t let go, not even as he stopped and mentioned how bright Laurent’s golden hair shined in the tuscan sun. 

And it felt just like being alive. 

_Are you my fever dream?_ He thought

_My sleight of hand, trick of the light?_

_My less than I asked for, more than I deserve._

_At last._

_Are you mine?_

***

Aimeric called just at the worst time, when he was freaking out. 

Laurent considered not answering for a second. But he hadn’t spoken with Aimeric in several days, only exchanged a few texts. And so he felt compelled to set his own excessive panicking and overthinking aside for his best friend, who all in all was probably having a harder time than he was. 

Laurent closed the browser on his laptop and accepted the incoming call, Aimeric’s face coming in full view in a matter of seconds. 

“Hey. Is this a bad time?” 

“Not at all,” he replied, taking a quick glance at the time on the upper right corner of his laptop. It was almost eleven, which meant around five in the afternoon at Marlas. “What's up? Are you okay?”

Aimeric sighed, then shrugged a little, “Yeah, just got home from meeting with the _grooms_ about the wedding location.”

Nicaise, who had been making tea and occasionally sneaking into the living room to pester him as usual, joined the conversation casually, “And?”

Not surprised by Nicaise’s intromision, Aimeric said, “Fruitless. They haven't decided on anything and things are piling up.”

“I would have expected Jord to be…” Laurent struggled to find the word he wanted. Giving up, “Not difficult.”

Aimeric leaned his head on his hand, brushing his hair back a little. He scrunched up his nose, making a face, “I thought so too.”

Peeking into the camera view, Nicaise said, “It's not too late for them to actually hire someone else.” 

He wanted to roll his eyes, but opted not to. “We already went through this, Nic.” 

Clicking his tongue, “Don't you have to pack, Laurent?”

“Pack?” Aimeric echoed, “Where are you going?”

Before he couldn’t fathom a plausible answer that wasn’t completely a lie but wasn’t the truth, Nicaise opened his mouth yet again, “Yeah,” he said, “He's going on a day trip to Nesson-Eloy with that childhood boytoy he has.”

“Childhood boytoy? What the hell?”

“What was his name?” an evil grin on his lips, “ _Damien_?”

Aimeric both gasped and screamed at the same time, “You mean _Damen_?” Then, staring straight at him, “Laurent. Explain yourself.”

_Oh for fuck’s sake._

He closed his eyes, licked his lips before answering, “I wanted to tell you, but a lot of things were happening and I didn't want to upset you.”

“Wait a minute,” realization hitting in, “How long has this been going on?”

Nicaise seemed to think about it for a second, “Like a month.”

“ _A month?_!”

Laurent elbowed Nicaise hard, but he just laughed, “You’re not helping, Nic.”

“I'm not here to help, I'm here to be entertained.” 

Laurent thought of punching him on the face. If he was lucky, maybe one of his rings would land awfully and break one of his teeth. 

He started, although he knew there wasn’t really a way out of this one anymore, “Mer, I have to—” 

“ _No_. You're not going anywhere. You're gonna sit down and talk. I wanna know everything.”

“Let him go, Aimeric. He needs to be well-rested. If he’s lucky he might get laid tomorrow.” 

Another half scream half gasp, “ _What?!_ ”

This time, with his whole heart, Laurent meant each and every of the words that came out of his mouth. Turning to Nicaise, he forced a sarcastic smile, “I fucking hate you.”

"Well,” Nicaise announced, phone in hand, “My job here is done. Excuse me while I go have cybersex with one of my business clients."

Laurent heard Aimeric snort and watched Nicaise wink at him then retreat and disappear into his bedroom. 

He ran fingers along his hair, relieved to be alone. In front of him, his best friend smiled in complicity. It reminded Laurent of how much he used to love gossip back in high school, to the point he almost ran a Gossip Girl styled Twitter account in college, “So? Feel like talking a bit?”

There was both excitement and a certain doubt in the way he asked. A careful approach, if one must, disguising...worry. 

It was simple, because Aimeric always worried. Constantly, about everything. But especially about him. 

Laurent didn’t want to talk. Voicing his fears often meant he got more aware of them, and his stress manifested then physically. He’d lay awake listening to his own heartbeat race until he couldn’t tell if it would break or just stop at once. 

He played with his hands a little, his eyes flickering away before settling back on the screen. He was...afraid. And he knew Aimeric could probably tell. 

So he told him the whole story minus a chapter. 

About how he’d met Damen by chance at a bar and the dinner they had. About how they’d been hanging out, talking, catching up. About the idea he had, when Damen mentioned he hadn’t yet visited Nesson-Elloy and how Laurent hadn’t either, and the words were out of his mouth before he could catch them. 

_We can go together._

Aimeric listened attentively, nodding his head, making small comments, asking questions. _What kind of restaurant? Where did you go? What is he doing now?_

He was midway explaining the project Damen was leading in Italy when Nicaise called from his bedroom, “They’ve been doing ridiculous stuff around town, too.”

Annoyed, Laurent yelled back, “Weren’t you busy?”

A second later, “I’m multitasking!”

“Ah,” Aimeric said, eyebrows raised in surprise, “Why does that sound familiar.”

Laurent swallowed. "I wonder."

"You're playing the game again, aren't you?"

_Busted._

The game, he said. As if it wasn’t one of the reasons why Laurent had started to beat somewhat rhythmically again. 

As if it wasn’t everything Laurent was bargaining for. 

“I—”, he tried, defensively, “It’s not like before.”

It was worse. It was better. 

“How so? He isn’t daring you to eat bugs anymore?” 

“That was only once.”

“Yeah,” Aimeric said, clearly enjoying the memory, “Then you dared him to take a gulp of dark blue ink.”

“We’re adults now.”

“Are you?”

Again, Nicaise’s voice cut through, “They're dancing in the street and getting in ridiculous costumes!”

Aimeric laughed, “Right, it seems you’ve gotten worse.” Then, once the laughter subdued, he said, a little softer, “So... how is he?”

“Piping hot, that’s how!” called Nicaise, and Laurent took a hand to his face in embarrassment. 

Clearly trying to contain his laughter, Aimeric said, “I don't think it's possible he got even more attractive.”

He looked away, feeling himself blush a little, found an interesting spot in the wall, “He did,” and then, “But he's the same person.”

Except he wasn’t. Damen was still gentle and smart and teasing...but it wasn’t the same. 

It could never be the same, because Laurent wasn’t seventeen and Damen wasn’t twenty three and Auguste was dead. And too much had happened in too little time, and they burnt out of each other’s lives. 

“Is that right? You have changed yourself, for the better I think.”

“He’s…” a truth, “How I remember him.”

“So nothing has changed between you two.”

_Everything has._

A lie, “Not precisely.”

~~_He kissed me. I let him._ ~~

_And I don’t know what to do now._

_I don’t know if it’s real._

_I don’t know if it’s worth it._

_I don’t know if I’m willing to risk it._

Aimeric regarded him for a moment, then closed his eyes for a second as he said, “Sure,” a small smile, a knowing look, “If you say so.” 

_Isn’t this what I wanted?_ Laurent wondered. 

If he were a bit braver, a bit more honest with himself, he would have voiced it out. He would have said, _I don’t know what I’m doing. What should I do? What if it’s all in my head again? What if getting back at me for those horrible things I said?_

_What if this is just a game we play?_

~~_I have only one heart. Have mercy on me._ ~~

“Listen, Lo,” and his voice turned suddenly serious, Laurent’s heart beating holes inside his chest, “I know how much he means to you.” He paused, bit his lower lip as he spoke, “And I know I probably gave you bad advice back then, and I don't know if this is the right advice right now either. Hell, I don’t even know if I should be giving you advice at all considering….” he trailed off, waved his hand a little. 

All Laurent could do was breathe. Remember himself to breathe. Grip one of the corners of the low table, count the seconds as they went. 

Aimeric continued, “I know you tend to overthink...a lot.” A sigh, “But...let go. Just let go, if it’s what you really want.”

_I want a story._

_I want to feel everything._

_I want Damen._

But it was a frightening thing, to want. To wait. To finally get what has been so explicitly desired and denied. 

It felt so much like a game, but one he didn’t know how to play and where he was always gambling the most. 

What if he lost? 

Laurent laughed a little. A bit of a nervous yet bitter laugh. “You make it sound easy.”

“Nothing about you is easy.”

“Well, thanks.”

“But you seem happy.”

Laurent opened his mouth, then thought for a minute. In spite of everything, “I am.” He blushed a little as he said so, relief washing over him like a wave, easing down his raced thoughts. 

Relief from what? He didn’t know. Himself, perhaps. In spite of himself. He wasn’t sure. 

“You guys were always close. I'm glad you met up again.”

Sincerely, “Me too.”

Magic. Blasphemy. _Fate?_

“I should go now,” Aimeric said, glancing at his watch, “But you tell me everything when you come back from your trip.”

“I will.”

“Have fun.” he said, “Don't overthink.” And lastly, “Love you.”

With Aimeric gone, Laurent shut his laptop and took a deep breath. Ten years and he hadn’t learned to raise his defenses against the bastard of Aimeric, who knew him better than anyone— ~~_except for Auguste_ . ~~

He shut his eyes then, rolled back his shoulders and then his neck in an attempt to relax the tense muscles in his body. He never managed to fully relax, there was always some part of himself that was tightly clenched and ready to snap. His jaw, his teeth, his neck, an arm, his own brain…

So was it worth all this? Was it worth getting involved again, after all these years? Or would they end up like Altair and Vega, cursed for all eternity? 

_Because love was so short and oblivion so long._

What could happen, if he let go? 

***

_D: are we still up for tomorrow at 7am?_

_L: yes, don't be late!_

_D: you don't need to tell_ me _, sleeping beauty_

***

They almost missed their train. 

It’s not like they were tightly on schedule, but missing that express train would mean waiting another thirty-five minutes for the regular one and adding an extra hour to their trip to Nesson-Eloy. Considering they were merely going for the day, it would be a waste of time and money if they happened to arrive there past lunch-time. 

It was early, about to be eight. Their train was supposed to depart a quarter past, and so they had stopped at a bakery inside the station to buy some sandwiches and coffee for breakfast to eat on the way. Laurent was paying for his own haul of snacks and sweets when Damen had looked at him horrorized, listening to the woman calling out from the speakers, “They’re announcing our train.” 

That’s when they ran. Paid everything in a hurry, shoving the food inside their bags as they set in motion, holding their tickets in their mouths and trying not to spill their coffee as they went. Their gate had changed, and so they had to run back downstairs into the tunnels of the station to try and find the correct one. 

Laurent had been terribly sleepy before, and he wasn’t in the mood for such a thing. He was content with just following Damen, who seemed much more awake than he was, and who dragged him by the arm like a mother to a child. 

He looked so foreign in the early morning sun Laurent had a hard time believing he was completely real. 

But he was, he definitely was. His touch was stern though gentle. His voice was clear when he said, “Come on, we’re closer now.” and they made their way back upstairs to the correct gate this time. 

Watching Damen in front of him, Laurent realized he would have singled him out from the world in each and every lifetime they had. It was a sense of belonging; finding and being found, that came natural whenever they touched or exchanged a look. 

_I only have one heart._

It was a bit surreal, an out of body experience, to watch Damen’s curls bounce in slow motion and his mouth curving into a reassuring smile when he glanced back at him. 

Smiles that Laurent knew now were reserved to him. 

_Have mercy on me._

His own annoyance didn’t stand a chance against the tenderness Damen treated him with. Laurent yanked his arm free, only to slide his own hand down to Damen’s. 

Because,

This was okay, ~~wasn’t it?~~ He was grateful neither of them said anything. They’d been holding hands more often now. Sometimes, like at the museum. Usually it was Damen who initiated it while he tried not to overthink it, like Aimeric had said. But it was like trying to ask for pears to an elm tree; completely impossible. 

He was being so stupid, ~~wasn’t he~~? _Needy_. It was pitiful. 

~~Why was it that he couldn’t bring himself to care?~~

He wanted for these moments to go on forever and ever. Stretch out until he wasn’t sure there’d be another day in his reality where he wouldn’t feel so intoxicated with these feelings. 

This was what he had chosen, and what he would always choose. This was the one thing he couldn’t lose. ~~_I’d rather let it kill me instead._~~

When they finally made it to the train, they were slightly out of breath and sweaty, however thankful for the air conditioned inside. It wasn’t full, and so they were able to find an entire empty carriage only for them. 

Laurent let himself sink down onto the seat with a sigh, “We made it.”

Damen sat across from him, setting down their bags on the adjacent empty places, “The coffee is still warm,” he said, opening the takeaway lid and taking a sip. “Should we have breakfast now?”

He closed his eyes for a second, then nodded, “Please.”

They took out the still hot sandwiches and chocolate biscuits as the train began to move. A small but wholesome breakfast spread on the tiny table between them. 

Laurent added sugar to his own coffee, stirring it as he took a glance at the scenery outside; the countryside, vineyards underneath endless cloudless skies. So different from home, so appealing to the senses. 

Nesson-Eloy was a famous enough city in this region of Italy. So much that he hadn’t been bothered to go, really. He’d been a tourist like everyone else, but something about the summer crowds didn’t sit well with him, and then he didn’t really feel like going around much during the winter. It didn’t snow there as much as in Marlas, but still he wasn’t too convinced. 

So he hadn’t been. It was one of the reasons why he’d immediately loved the idea of exploring it for the first time with Damen. It’d make up for a nice memory...going to a new place just the two of them. 

Hoping it’d be nice and that he wouldn’t make it awkward. That they would have fun...but not like always, no. 

This wasn’t...about the game. And Laurent was terrified to find out that maybe they were nothing without that box. 

He hadn’t brought it along. He considered it, at first. But after talking to Aimeric he realized he didn’t want to.

He needed to know how to handle what was happening between him and Damen before it pulled him into the water and drowned him. It wasn’t just about the dares anymore, although he enjoyed them greatly and would kill before having to stop playing. 

There was,

He had this oddness inside of him. This desire for an answer of a question he hadn’t even formulated yet. 

_Would you single me out from the world?_

He wondered then, as he watched the scenery outside, what of the many sightseeing spots should they go first and what to save for last. Which one would make Damen the happiest? 

One of their famous, love-struck bridges with promises of eternal love? The Natural History museum, that looked more like a palace than an actual museum? The planetarium? Laurent had stayed awake till two in the morning reading articles about the many things to do when visiting, writing some notes on his phone, just in case they got bored too quickly. He’d been too excited and nervous to sleep properly, so he needed to occupy his mind before exhaustion overcame him. 

“What should we do first?” he asked, still looking out the window, “When we get there, I mean.”

Damen followed his gaze outside the window. He said, amused, “Surprise me.”

He smiled a wicked smile, “Do you trust me?“

“Unfortunately I do.”

“Asshole,” he clicked his tongue, “I was,” suppressing a yawn, “Trying to be nice for once.”

Damen didn’t seem to mind. “Are you sleepy? You can nap if you want.”

Shaking his head, “I’m alright.” He was too hungry to sleep anyway. His stomach was growling painfully, only calming when he dipped a cookie in his coffee and shoved it whole in his mouth. 

They ate in silence for a minute. Damen was the one to break it. “Do you ever feel like running away?” he asked, “Take a train to some other country and become another person?”

_Oh._

He lowered his sandwich, cleaned his hands fussily on a napkin. Quietly, “Why do you think I came here in the first place?”

“The good food?”

Smirking, “Close.”

In a soft, honest voice, Damen said, “I envy you.”

Suddenly, it seemed to him as if the volume of the world had been lowered. He couldn’t hear anything, and all of his attention went to the man in front of him. A boy from his past. 

Was Damen unhappy?

Laurent had no reason to suspect that, except the way Damen avoided his gaze entirely as he spoke. And he had left the rest of his food and coffee untouched. And there was a certain melancholy in the way he sat there, leaning his chin on his hand as he looked outside, his eyes lost entirely. 

He had no reason to pry or intrude, except he had known Damen once, and it all came down to muscle memory. To play things by ear. 

To recognize something of his own in someone he loved and being concerned by it. 

A bit playfully, “Because I’ve been eating my weight in pizza and sweets for a whole year?”

Damen smiled a little, however clearly dispirited, “You’re so free. You can live your life as you please.”

_You’re not free if you’re running away._

“Is this what we’re doing right now?” he asked, “Running away, becoming different people.”

“Would it be such a bad thing?”

“Maybe that's what life is... a wink of the eye and winking stars." 

“Who said that?”

“Jack Kerouac.”

Damen shifted in his seat, clearly toying with an idea on his lips, “I didn’t want to come here at first,” he said at last, “I didn’t want to spend the summer dealing with a project I didn’t care to lead while also having Kastor’s scorn behind my back. But I agreed last minute, because I hoped maybe here I’d be able to...breathe. Up until that moment I hadn’t realized I wasn’t breathing.” A small pause, “And then, I found you.”

And then,

And then,

They were on a train. Because, sometimes the best memories start off at odd times, in unexpected places. 

“That’s funny,” Laurent smiled, gently kicking Damen’s foot, “I thought it was me who found you.”

“Sure you did.”

“Don’t worry about anything right now,” he said, gently, “We can run away for a day.”

Damen’s eyes wandered down as he smiled, then looked up at him again. Charming. “And who will we be?”

“Who do you want to be?”

“Yours.”

_Breathe._

“What do you mean?”

“I want to be yours.”

He forgot how to breathe. He felt his face turn warm and his lungs contracting, lacking air. What could he possibly say to that? 

At his silence, “You don’t believe me.” Not a question or an accusation, rather a curious confirmation revealed within the unspoken.

But Laurent was done. He was done with this silly scene and the uncertain. He was done with not asking questions. He wanted to take, take, take until he couldn’t keep anymore. 

So he would exchange one truth, because Damen had been honest, and therefore so was he.

Leaning over, Laurent pressed a single finger over Damen’s mouth. A taunting order, from a lover. In his case, a question, an answer and a gift of what would become their damnation.

_Would you single me out from the world?_

“Unfortunately,” Laurent whispered, “I do.”

***

The Botanic Gardens of Nesson-Eloy were poorly connected, and so Laurent had let them roam around in the city centre for a bit before enrouting Damen to the surprise he’d orchestrated the night before instead of sleeping. 

There was a slight fear that Damen wouldn’t like it; that somehow he’d fallen out of gardening somewhere between their dinner date and this moment and he wasn’t as interested as before. Which was clearly a stupid thing to think, but Laurent couldn’t help it. 

What if the selection was boring? What if the plants were dry? What if it wasn’t as big as he thought? What if if if if if if?

After enjoying a light lunch near the riverside, they’d taken a bus that stopped right at the gates of the gardens. It took them a bit to enter, as they had to queue for the tickets and it was full of families with too-energetic kids running in circles, but then they were free to explore and Laurent slid his hand into Damen’s without saying a word. 

They turned, however, and saw their own smiles reflected on the other’s face. 

“Surprise,” Laurent whispered, giving a tug to Damen’s hand. 

“I didn’t know,” Damen said, features happy yet confused, “That there was a garden here.”

“It’s a bit too far from the touristic area,” he explained, “but I figured you would like it.”

 _I thought of you,_ he didn’t say, though it was implicit. I _thought of you, and our night at the rooftop._

Following his trail of thoughts, Damen smiled, “You flatter me.”

“What do we do first?” Laurent asked him, at last.

“Let’s see the greenhouse, it seems like they have some tropical flowers there.”

Nodding, “By all means, lead the way.” 

The greenhouse was the home of most species brought from South America and South Asia. It was big enough that it’d taken them a good while to see all of it, as Damen had taken pictures of every plant and little bird and bug sitting on a random leaf. 

He would have complained, had it been anyone else. Instead, he just found it endearing.

His heart squeezed and expanded at the way Damen looked around, clearly amazed. Not like he wasn’t either; the gardens were vast and full of vibrant colours and aromas everywhere they looked. The day was beautifully sunny with open blue skies and the temperature was made bearable by gentle strokes of cool wind. 

But it was one man who had his entire attention. 

And Laurent didn’t mind, didn’t care enough about orchids and huge yellow trees enough to turn his eyes away from dark skin and sun freckles. It was perfect — too perfect. If he ever got cursed to repeat one single day for the rest of his life, then he’d pick this one.He wanted it to last forever. A million years. An eternity and a day. 

_Can I get a few more lines?_ To the author, _Can I get another chapter?_

Damen’s excitement was contagious and his smiles intoxicating. He talked about flowers as if he had somehow brought them to life; ordered nature around, raised them himself from the soil. 

Laurent could never remember the names, even as he tried to memorize them. He looked at them and they all seemed familiar. Sometimes the colours translated into meanings, but even if Damen told him the words over and over again, he could never grasp it fully. And yet, he knew he’d get tired of it. He’d never have enough. Just when he thought he’d learned Damen’s heart completely, another door opened and inside was a room full of more. 

Was it a bad thing, to want more and more of a person? To never be satisfied, to want to eat them whole? 

Was it bad to think he didn’t want to share Damen with the rest of the world? That he wanted him to be by his side forever and more. 

He was falling, wasn’t he? He was diving in. But how could he not? When Damen was a wonderful man, a loving, caring person who also turned teasing and playful and a little bit wicked. Stubborn within his own strength. Kind while still fair. 

In the days that followed their kiss and then their failed one, he’d hoped to find a good reason not to cave to his heart’s desire. He’d written a list of cons inside his head, tried to come up with all the things that could go wrong. He looked for any reason not to find himself in this position, but none of them were strong enough. 

None of them made sense. 

Now they were here, and Laurent made a choice. 

They were walking along the shore of a small lake, full of ducks in different shapes and sizes. Damen had gotten them both a pack of seeds to feed them, and so they sat down together under the nearest shadow, gently throwing seeds at the ducks that quacked in their direction. 

“Are you happy?” Laurent asked. 

Damen was leaning back, with his hands on the grass. “Right now?” He hummed, “Very much so. Are you?”

“I don’t know,” he teased, “I’ve been better.”

Laurent saw the way Damen grinned, tilting his head back, the sun showering his features in golden sparkle, “What would it take to make this better for you, Your Highness?”

“Let me think.” And then, “Some shaved ice would be nice.”

“Okay, we can do that. What else?”

“Maybe you can catch one of those ducklings for me.” 

“Whatever would you do with a duckling?”

“It could be my Italian pet. I could teach it to shit on Nicaise’s pillow.” 

And Damen laughed, and he felt the sound echo inside of him. It felt like love. It felt like happiness and glory and victory. 

“Well, sorry to disappoint, sweetheart. But I’m pretty sure that if I went anywhere near those ducklings, the mom would bite one of my fingers off.”

“Sounds exciting, let’s do it.”

“You don’t have the box, so you can’t dare me.”

“What if I asked you nicely?”

“No.”

“Very nicely?”

“No.”

“You’re so selfish.”

“Look who’s talking.”

“Anyway, we drifted from the point. I was telling you about my princeling requirements.”

“Of course. Do go on, Your Highness.”

Damen had his eyes closed, and Laurent shifted closer then, ever so slightly, careful not to disturb the scene. This time it would be different. 

This time, he was braver. This time he knew. They could fall in love; they were already falling. 

And so, as in all games and agreements, there was only one thing left to do; sign the deal. Ink on a paper, a name, an initial, a date. And they were bound. 

In Laurent’s case, a kiss. And it was done. 

“Damen,” he said, almost a whisper.

Damen turned to him, opening his eyes, and Laurent caught his lips with his. It was perfect, because this time neither of them pulled away. Neither of them were looking ahead, a million years away. They were both there, reunited, in each other’s arms. As it was meant to happen from the very start.

It was not an innocent kiss, but one filled with words. It said everything he could never voice out loud, it held the meaning of the beatings of his own treacherous heart. 

And Damen kissed him as if he understood each and every line and passage he’d written in those quiet gasps. He kissed him as if he too had waited for a lifetime if not more. His hands went to his face, cupping one of his cheeks, caressing softly, then resting back on his neck as he pulled Laurent closer. 

Every single love song he knew talked about this moment. And well, Laurent knew too many love songs to know how they ended. But for this bridge and this chorus, he would rather forget. 

_Love me. Stay with me. Turn down these voices inside my head. Lay down with me. Tell me no lies. Just hold me close, don't patronize…me._

_I can’t make you love me, but now you do. Now you do. Now you do, you do, you do, you do, you do._

Pulling away, Laurent looked at Damen with his cheeks flushed and a smile on his face. “Well now, wasn’t this better?”

Foreheads touching, “It was adequate.”

A small laugh. Then, “Damen.”

Dragging out the syllables, playfully, in a sing-like voice, “Laurent.”

“You make me happy,” he said. 

“You also make me happy,” Damen whispered, against his neck, “So happy.” 

~~_But If you hurt me, I will hurt you back._ ~~

***

They spent the rest of the day in the gardens. Once they’d stopped kissing, they laid down on the grass and talked about too much and too little. And Laurent, always defiant, had rolled on his belly, reaching into the lake to try and catch a duckling. 

The little thing started to bat its feathers and quack, but didn’t bite him. If anything, it seemed to like the way Laurent stroked its head with his index finger, the way he used to do with Clementine. Damen had kissed his cheek before taking a picture of the fluffy yellow ball eating seeds from the palm of his hand. 

After that, they took another long, slow stroll around the rose bushes and marbled fountains, took pictures in between the tulips and kissed surrounded by sunflowers. 

Roses, depending on the colour, could mean joy, passion or friendship. And tulips, according to Damen, meant deep love and rebirth, because they were the first flowers to bloom in spring. Now sunflowers, often associated with happiness due to its name and colour, meant loyalty. 

Unconditional love. Unwavering faith. 

And loyalty was something he could get behind. Something that touched and lingered, and that conveyed the rest in just one. 

Once done with the gardens, they headed back to the city centre. They still had time before they needed to head back to the station, and so they decided to stop for a late afternoon snack at an ice cream shop that claimed to have a thousand different flavours. Cue to Laurent de Vere tossing the man next to him like a paper cup and falling in love at first sight with an ice cream cone of five different flavours. 

He was enamoured with it the way Narcisso was with himself, and both of them had the same look of longing on their faces, except only one of them drowned to his death. 

At least so far. 

Raspberry, melon, yogurt, pistachio and lemon mixed together in his mouth as he ate. He thought himself in heaven, until a voice took him out of his reverie.

“ _Laurent_.”

He looked up then, to find Damen frowning at him. “What is it?”

“Where’s my stuff?”

Blinking, “What stuff?”

“Phone and wallet?” Laurent blinked again, “I left them here,” pointing to the empty space on the bench, “Next to you. Come on, Laurent, stop playing.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Damen sighed, then continued, seemingly mad, “I asked you to take care of my things while I went to the bathroom.” 

_Shit._

Realization must have shown on his face, for Damen took his hands to his face in exasperation. “I can’t believe you.”

“Why are you mad at me?” he snapped, “It’s your stuff. Be responsible for them.”

Damen’s eyes were angry, “Oh my God,” and, “All my cash was there. And my credit cards. That phone had all the information regarding my most important clients. Laurent, come the fuck on, I asked you for one thing.”

Laurent opened his mouth, then closed it again as he thought better of what to say. He looked past Damen at the people passing by, feeling guilty. He’d fucked up. 

“Do you want the rest of my ice cream?” he offered it up to Damen, feeling like a scolded child. Damen shook his head anyway, so he pulled it back down and gave it another bite. “I’m sorry,” he sighed, “I’ll buy you a new phone.”

Arms crossed, Damen sat next to him on the bench, “Can you lend me yours at least? I need to call my office and ask my assistant to cancel my cards.” 

Laurent nodded, passed him his phone without another word and simply watched Damen pace as he talked to whoever was his assistant. Apparently his passport was also inside his wallet, and so he also needed to make arrangements with the embassy. 

Guilt anchored him to that bench on the side of the Piazza. He finished his ice cream in silence, then looked around somewhere to get two bottles of water and gestured to Damen the direction of the shop he was going to. 

It took a long time, and when Damen finally got off the phone and handed it back, the sun was already going down. 

“I’m sorry,” Laurent whispered, coming up from behind and wrapping his arms around Damen’s waist. Pressing his face against his shoulder, “Don’t be mad?” 

Damen sighed, then relaxed into his touch. It made Laurent smile, somehow. “I’m not leaving you alone with an ice cream ever again.” 

A light chuckle, “That might be for the best.”

“Was it good at least?”

“It was.” then, “I’ll buy us dinner to make up for it.”

“Yeah well, you have to anyway.”

“Give me a kiss.”

Turning in his arms, Damen looked at him playfully. “You order me around too?”

He nodded, then pointed to his own lips. 

“How bossy.” 

“Fine, then,” Laurent said, dramatically, stepping away, “You don’t have to.”

Damen stopped him, however, arms wrapped around his torso, “I never said no.”

“You’re too slow.”

“I just got robbed because of you, I don’t think you’re in a position to be so demanding.”

“You said it yourself,” Laurent grinned, “You don’t think.”

“God, you’re such a brat.”

“And you’re a brute.”

But when Damen pecked his lips, the clocks stopped. And suddenly, they had forever.

***

They took the last train back to Ravenel. 

It was considerably empty, but they took seats closer to the door because they were too tired to walk and get to another carriage. 

Laurent had taken the window’s seat, but Damen didn’t mind. He was fine like this; sitting side by side, shoulders touching, hands linked together. 

They sat in comfortable silence, and after a while Damen was about to ask about getting a cab from the station in Ravenel, only to realize Laurent was dozing off. He was breathing evenly, his head nodding until it startled him awake and then back asleep again. 

Adorable. 

“Lo,” Damen whispered against his hair, kissing his head, “Just sleep if you’re tired.”

Laurent grew awake again, pushed his glasses onto his face. “I’m not tired.”

Stubborn.

Damen bit his bottom lip to stop himself from smiling, “Sure.”

After a minute or so, Laurent’s head settled comfortably on his shoulder, his body finding a better position to sleep in. Once he was sure he was completely out, Damen took the glasses off his face, then closed and carefully placed them on the little table in front of them. 

For the first time in a while, Damen was genuinely happy. Maybe even years. 

He wouldn’t consider himself an unhappy person overall. He had a nice apartment back in Marlas, and he had a good job with a very comfortable salary. He had few friends but they were good ones, and that was more than enough. 

And yet, he couldn’t help but feel like his life was...useless. It didn’t make sense, sometimes. Before coming to Italy, he’d woken up and looked up at the ceiling, wondering, _“Is this it?”_

_Is this the life I truly want to be living?_

_Are these the people I want to keep around?_

_Is this enough? It should be, then why…_

_Why do I feel like something’s missing?_

It wasn’t sadness or anger, just dissatisfaction. Boredness. 

Until he found Laurent. It was such an impossible situation, to have found him at last, so far from when they last shared the stage together. So long since he’d last heard that voice, that taunting word, _“Game?”_

Laurent, he went like a blight upon the dullness of the world. 

Laurent, he cared about what Damen had to say. He cared about what Damen wanted. 

He was selfish, had always been, but now Damen was inside his bubble. He was inside the walls. Together, they were worse. They were terrible, but it felt right. 

When Laurent kissed him in the gardens, it felt like a first kiss but one that would leave him starving. He felt it the minute their pull crashed them together and it was too much, too intense to ignore, too good to defy. 

What he so desperately wanted, what was lacking in his life, was passion. And Laurent continuously burnt and consumed himself like a candle; he was rational, until someone lit his match, and then he wasn’t. 

He knew what he wanted and he knew how to get it. He was game, always game, for anything. 

He’d grown into a cunningly smart young man, as he was destined to do. But what Damen never saw was how his own feelings would grow around him too. 

Damen couldn’t predict how fondness and affection would turn to _this_ , and how absurdly he’d fall. Just as he couldn’t predict what awaited them. 

So he grabbed his camera again, took another picture. The twentieth of the day, the last one of their trip. And there was Laurent, sleeping soundly, a small smile on his face. 

_Let it linger,_ Damen thought. _His happiness, and mine._

_Our happiness._

_Let it linger, his love, and mine._

_Make it last._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeeeeello. Is it just me or suddenly the days are passing by super fast? I honestly can't catch up with everything that's happening around the globe. Blink and it's Monday morning and I'm working my ass off. Blink again and it's Saturday, my fav time of the week! 
> 
> Anygay, I hope you guys are doing good. I'm not super proud of this chapter either, but I'm trying to take things a bit easier. You were all so very sweet to me, it meant a lot to hear (read?) words of appreciation and kindness towards something I put a lot of effort and energy on, even if it might not be my best work at times. So I'm super thankful for all of you <3 I really am, as I'm super thankful for demon-friend, partner in crime, and Ana, dear friend of mine who accepted to go to the V&A museum only so I could look at statues and then beta read this chapter. 
> 
> The botanic gardens here were massively inspired by the Kew Gardens in Kew, England and the Giardino Scotto in Pisa, Italy. I'm not very good at describing this type of imagery, but do take a look at the pictures of both places as they're utterly beautiful. 
> 
> "Because love was so short and oblivion so long." quote (with a few tweaks) by Pablo Neruda. 
> 
> "Turn down these voices inside my head / Lay down with me / Tell me no lies / Just hold me close, don't patronize / Don't patronize me" lyrics taken from [I Can't Make You Love Me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_z2PAkOSJT0) by Bonnie Raitt.
> 
> Apart from that, I'm just SO happy that some of you guys have been listening to Nothing But Thieves thanks to this fic! Just so you know, their new album Moral Panic just came out yesterday and it's AMAZING from beginning to end! Some of their new songs are already inspiring future chapters so, looking forward to that. Check them out, they honestly deserve all the fangirling I'm serving right now (lolol if you follow me on twitter, you can see it can get much much worse)
> 
> That's all, take care and see you soon!<3


	15. Act II: Chapter 13

The good was too good. The bad was insanity. 

Somehow, sometimes, it fell in the middle. In between the euphoria and the despair, there was a small gap, and although it was hard for them to find it, they did. As all lovers do. 

It was hard for them to remember that there had ever been a time where they had wanted to kill each other as much as they wanted to love the other to oblivion. As the times where they fought weren’t as extenuant, and the moments they made love weren’t counted. 

Sometimes, they found a balance. 

“Carry me?” Laurent asked, innocently. 

“No.”

He pursed his lips at Damen’s refusal, “My feet hurt.” 

“Laurent, you're like seventy kilograms.”

“And you're twice as that in muscle,” he said, patting his arm twice, “Come on, put them to good use, brute.”

Damen sighed, but complied anyway. He let Laurent close his arms around his neck, then he held his legs on each side of his waist. “Will you ever stop being a brat? I wonder.”

In response, Laurent yanked his hair, hard. 

Wincing, “I guess not.”

“I’ll bite you.”

“No, don’t do it.”

“I will.”

“If you do, I’ll drop you.”

“You won’t.”

“Wanna bet?”

There was a hint of laughter before Laurent bit Damen softly, on the neck. Teasingly, playfully. All in all, it was nothing. 

~~It was everything.~~

And so, the balance shifted once more. 

***

Laurent was happy when his mom called. 

Actually, he had been happy for a good while now. The longest he’d been in years. All thanks to a man with curly dark hair and lovely dimples who liked to tease him over the phone during his breaks at work, and who sent him sentence-long emails about love and the movies. 

And their game. 

Because kissing and holding hands didn’t mean they wouldn’t play. If anything, it just meant the dares got a little bit more interesting whenever they managed to make the other quiver. 

If everyone else noticed how cheerful he’d gotten, no one mentioned. Except Nicaise, who sometimes liked to make jokes implying his non-existent sexual encounters. Not that he cared. ~~Not that he was hoping for it to change.~~

Moving on. 

He usually spoke with his mom once in a fortnight, but he wasn’t surprised that she’d called sooner. Propping himself up on the bed, he paused the movie he was watching on his laptop and accepted the call. It was a little past midday in Marlas, and the delivery service he’d hired had told him the package should arrive at some point between twelve and three. 

It was a box mainly full of european goods for his mom and some special food he’d found for Clementine. Plus an arsenal of clothes and tons of skin-care and make-up products Nicaise had been shipped from a luxurious brand in Japan. 

Spoiled rich brat, but oddly generous. Somehow, his mom seemed to also have adopted both Nicaise and Aimeric in an informal and yet tremendously important way, as he saw from the way they often talked about her like a friend. 

And she did call them the three musketeers whenever they visited. 

His mom’s radiant face came in full view and he immediately smiled. Laurent could tell by the way she’d curl her hair on the tips and wore her favourite red lipstick that it was one of the good days. A sunny day, too. She seemed to be in her study inside the house, the big paneled windows were opened, letting in all the light, “Hi mom.”

“Hi sweetheart,” she said, cheerfully, “I just got your package!”

“Did everything arrive okay? I told them it was fragile.”

“Everything’s perfect,” she smiled, “Thank you for the gifts, they’re wonderful. Tell Nicaise thank you, as well.” 

“Will do.”

“There's someone who wants to say hello!” she sang, bringing her hands up and showing Clementine wrapped around her wrist, “She loved the food you sent. A very fancy snack.”

His heart melted at the sight of his _Tiny_. Whoever said snakes wouldn’t be good pets had never met a soul as pure as Clementine’s. She was grounding in a way no one else had been. She could tell his moods and knew the pitch of his voice and had never once attacked him. Instead, she’d taken a liking to curl up on the place where his heart should be and stay there, immobile, for hours. Right before he’d left for Italy. 

Back then, his mom had told him she was probably shielding his heart. And it’d made so much sense, he’d wanted to cry.

But she looked good, now. She seemed a bit longer, and he couldn’t help but smile brightly at the way she tongue-flicked the moment he said her name. She moved closer to the camera, looking for the source of his voice, staring straight at him. It was both funny and endearing and he just wanted to hold her close. 

“Those beetles should help with her shedding,” he said as her mom chuckled, cradling Clementine closer to her like a baby. Clementine twisted around her arms, then crawled up towards her shoulders.

“She’s very playful with me now,” his mom said, “It took her some time, but I think she’s settled on me not being a threat.”

He rested his chin on his hand, watching them, the _women_ of his life. Possibly the only two there’d ever be. “I’m glad you two are bonding.” 

“Oh! I also _loved_ the bag you sent! I wanted a new one in green and it’s the perfect shade.” 

Back to the brat. He didn’t roll his eyes, although he wanted to, remembering how adamant Nicaise had been in the specific shade of green his mom would want, “Nic chose that. Fashion Week is coming up and he's been getting a lot of presents.” 

By now, Clementine had decided on staying around his mom’s neck, laying along her extended arms. “Well he always had good taste.” 

“I won't relay the message, but I'll tell him you liked it.”

“Laurie,” she reprimanded, “Be nice to him.”

This time, he did roll his eyes, “He's a little shit.”

“Language.”

“Mom, I'm not a kid anymore.”

Shaking her head a little, “You will always be my sweet little boy.”

At that, Laurent looked away, then said, quietly, “I miss you, mom.”

He did. He’d been missing her more and more lately. It felt a bit easier now to talk to her. He’d been trying to open up, be a good son for once. Some days were harder than others, but he found himself wishing to call her more often. 

He wanted to know how she was, what she was up to. It’s almost as if he remembered she had her own life besides being his mother. She had friends and colleagues and a very successful law firm that was getting more and more recognition across the country. 

It was both selfish and contradictory to think she’d need him, and then that she wouldn’t. After all, being a mom was one of the many things she was, but for a long time he’d sort of stripped that from her. 

He had pushed her away, and now all he wanted was to have her back. 

She tilted her head to the side a little, giving him a sweet, adoring look. It almost made him blush. “I miss you too, sweetie. So does Clementine. But you seem happy, are you enjoying yourself? I know you've had a rough few days at work.”

“I’m fine,” he nodded, drawing circles with his index finger over the keyboard of his laptop, “It hasn’t been too bad, really. It’s all calmer now. How have you been?”

“I've been fine. This summer has been a little slow at work so we've had more time to expand the firm. Charity work and so on,” then, a bit more excitedly, “We might get involved in animal legal defense, too.”

As always, his mom was a force of nature. He smiled, “That’s exciting. I’m sure you’ll get your hands full again in a heartbeat.”

“You think?” She asked, twirling a strand of hair, “It's still early but we are getting a lot of support.”

“As you deserve.” 

She leaned a bit closer to the camera, taking Clementine off her shoulder and placing her on the desk, “But what about you? You've been so chirpy lately. And you're sunkissed, so you've been out a lot.”

Laurent felt embarrassed, as if his mom could see right through him, or read his mind. It wouldn’t surprise him if she actually could pry into his head. For a second, he just watched Clementine slowly make her way down, out of his view.

He knew he shouldn’t keep this secret any longer. He hadn’t told her about Fabio. Or well, he’d told her a different version; they were only friends. Fabio helped him improve his italian and that was about it. 

But this was…

He should tell her. 

Before he could think further, his mother spoke again, “I saw that you went to Nesson-Eloy. The pictures are beautiful.” And, “How’s Fabio?”

Scary. Moms were scary beings. 

“I—He’s fine. He’s in Greece.”

“Oh!” surprised, “I thought you went to Nesson-Eloy with him.” 

There was an expression in Spanish that he’d learnt in college. It basically translated into, _Earth, swallow me whole._ Which was exactly how he felt in that moment. 

He didn’t want to talk about this, because a part of him was almost sure that she knew. That somehow, she’d always find a way of knowing. 

_Oh no, I think I’m not quite ready._

“Ah. I need….I have something to tell you.”

“What is it?”

“You see...Damen is here. Auguste’s Damen,” he specified, as if there had ever been another one. _My Damen._ “I went to Nesson-Eloy with him. It was a day trip.”

“Oh,” there was a small pause, before she asked, “How come he’s there?” 

As it happened sometimes with his mom, her expression suddenly became unreadable. If there was anything in her eyes, she concealed it all before he had time to decipher it.

“Work, mostly. But we've been hanging out...catching up. It's been a few years.”

She nodded. Then again. 

There was another stretch of silence where she took her aways from him. He wondered about the words she wasn’t saying, and the weight of those that she’d use next. 

“Well, I'm glad that you're getting along again, honey.” And, “I'm sure Auguste must be happy you reunited.”

In that moment, Laurent stopped. He went completely still, and as he did so, he felt everything. And the thing about feeling absolutely everything was that whether good or bad, the intensity of it made it unbearable. It didn’t matter, in the end, joy or sadness. It was painfully striking, like a blow to the head or the stomach. 

And he always felt small, too small and about to be crushed down; a panicking bird in a cage, flapping its wings until they bled. Stuck in a second. Horrible, tormentous, endless second. 

Slowly, he made himself breathe. 

Auguste. 

He knew Auguste wouldn’t resent him, he was too noble. And yet he couldn’t stop feeling as if somehow he was betraying him. Like he owed him more than words or flowers or memory. Sometimes it felt as though Laurent was living with a borrowed heart, and soon enough he’d have to give it back. 

And when the time came, would he take out his own heart, hand it to the gods that never listened, only stole? 

The same way they’d stolen Auguste. 

It was in those short moments of sharp pain that he got to see him more clearly, almost real. Agony brought back the ghost of his dead brother, making him reachable. 

Wasn’t that a curse? 

Cursed Laurent De Vere, stuck in a perennial moment of affliction. Loving with a heart that was borrowed if not stolen, exchanging a brother for a lover. 

And wasn’t that what he did? Play with people.

He played, all he did was play. 

Laurent looked at his mom again. She smiled, closing her eyes briefly. 

“Maybe so,” he said softly, “Maybe he is happy.”

_Or maybe he knows that for a moment in time, I almost forgot._

_I almost forgot he was gone._

***

At the break of dawn, Laurent found himself sinking his feet deep into the sand, letting the salty waves of the sea wash over his toes. 

Every so rarely did he go to the beach alone, for he didn’t see the point of it. 

As a fact, there were certain places that he avoided due to the fact that they mostly enhanced his loneliness. The beach being one of those, of course. Today, however, he’d woken up in the middle of the night and he’d rolled on his sides for so long he quickly became sick of it. Thus why he ended up getting dressed and leaving the apartment, even with his mind hazy and heavy. He left as quietly as he could, making sure not to disturb a snoring Nicaise, and made his way along that dusty yet now familiar path that led to another distant shore. 

It wasn’t far, because nothing in Ravenel was ever that far, in the end. Not like in Marlas, where they needed trams and buses and underground lines to connect the entire city. Sometimes, depending on where he needed to go, he could take all means of public transport and reduce his commuting time significantly, opposed to how long he’d spend stuck in traffic otherwise. 

There had been a time when Laurent had thought he could never live in some place other than a big city. After a year in that town in Italy, he could almost change his mind. 

He stood there then, under a magnificent pastel blue sky, watching the sun rise again and feeling the passing of the seasons as a note reverbing onto his bones. The air was more humid, it tasted like salt every time he breathed. But at least it took some of the haziness away and all of those dreams—

 _All of those memories._ They weren’t dreams, just photographs. Windows into himself. 

It didn’t happen too often, anymore. Only when the winds changed. 

For the last four years, he noticed exactly the moment when the winds started to change and dreaded it. He dreaded the seasons because he dreaded the passing of time, and he dreaded the fact that everything in this world is eventual. 

Nothing lasts. Not a minute, not a lifetime. Nor the vices or the virtues. 

Not the dreams. They were too short, too thin, too washed out. 

In the end, it all came to waking up, getting through another day, turning into a pumpkin. Count another absence, count another birthday. Make a list of the things he lost, and the ones that were yet to be taken away. 

Hope that the wind won’t take them, this time. Hope that maybe he could be spared, and that he was detached enough for it not to affect him. Deny the fact that he was a dreamer as much as he was a romantic. Infuriatingly so, cross his heart and hope to die, then lie to the stars. 

A cool breeze blew his way, making him take a step back as he crossed his arms and braced himself for the intrusiveness of it. Holding onto the plaid overshirt he was now thankful he’d brought along, he took a breath, then sat down on the sand next to his discarded tennis shoes. 

And he opened the Pandora’s box of his mind, because he ought to. Because his mom had said his brother’s name, and it’d awakened in him again; Auguste.

He always thought of Auguste. 

He always, always thought of Auguste. 

But he was never prepared to bury him. 

All this time, playing a game with his brother’s best friend. God, was he selfish. 

It was the summer. It was August. And there was Damen, placing himself into a role Laurent had always pictured. And sometimes it felt like they were repeating a story, dancing the same waltz. 

Come the eighteen of the month, and that is what he always saw: Auguste in a body bag. Auguste in a coffin. 

Auguste sitting on the edge of his bed, wanting to talk to him, to comfort him. Asking for a hug. 

Was this how it had been for them too, when his dad died? His brother, and his mother, did they also see his father die in front of their eyes, over and over, year after year? Did they see him in flashes and between panic attacks? 

Or was this just him, dealing with a heart that was defective if not plainly broken? Feeling things too intensely, the way his mom would describe sometimes, when he was a child with moody outbursts. 

Why couldn’t it just be as easy as reaching into one of those windows inside of him, back to the last night he had Auguste in his life, and tell him the truth for once? He understood he couldn’t save Auguste, and even with a time machine perhaps there was nothing he could do. But he could talk to him. 

He just wanted to hear his voice again. But not in a dream or a memory. 

So he talked, because this wasn’t Marlas and in here there was no grave. It made it easier to pretend, to bring the words back up from their slumber. 

“You never came back, Auguste.” he said, quietly, remembering the last question his brother had made. The last chance to make his stubborn younger brother confide in him. “So I never told you.”

_But here’s the thing._

_I think I’m in love with Damen._

_I’ve been in love with him my whole life. I don’t know why it took me so long to tell you. I think I was scared of what you would think of me, because he was always your best friend. You were always together, leaving me behind._

_You were inseparable, and I hated that. I hated that you found in him the friend you never had in me because I was too young, and I hated that you were the first person he always went to for anything._

_Because I wanted both of your attention. I’ve never liked sharing._

_I didn’t want you to know; it was embarrassing enough as it was. Then, he rejected me and I couldn’t face you. Or him._

_But I want to tell you now. Maybe the timing hasn’t been perfect, but everything else has; he’s gentle, he treats me right. He’s been having a hard time, too. Somehow, he always knows when I need him. He always comes back to me._

_And I’m sorry that I didn’t say it when you were alive. I’m sorry if you felt I didn’t trust you._

_I was just stupid._

Laurent felt the tears roll down as he watched the waves crash in front of him. It was useless to think of all this now, he knew. Perhaps the pain of this regret and the shame that came with it would never fade away. 

Perhaps he would mourn Auguste for the rest of his damn, miserable life. Perhaps this was his story. 

But wherever Auguste was, wherever he may be, Laurent just wanted him to know that he was sorry. 

“Forgive me.” 

And as he closed his eyes, he was almost certain he could feel a hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly, the way his brother used to do. He thought he could hear a gentle voice, only as loud as a whisper. 

_‘What for?’_

_For being a bad brother and a bad son, for not insisting you stayed with me, for misbehaving, for not trusting you, for putting you aside to be with Damen, for forgetting you, for not dying_ _i ~~nstead of you~~ _ _with you._

_For hurting myself, for hurting others._

But the moment he reacted and looked behind him, there was nothing there. No one there. There was only the warmth that came with the sun, attempting to shine down on him, and the beginning of a headache blooming on the center of his forehead. Lack of sleep probably taking a toll already. 

He sat there for another while, drying his tears with his sleeve. Refusing to keep crying in public, even though it was five in the morning and there was no one there to see him. He took his shoes and walked along the shore, looking for sea glass, digging up holes in the sand to confuse a lost tiny crab who probably hated his guts. 

None of it mattered, because nothing lasted. The water erased his marks, and he was never there. 

By the time he made it back to the apartment, he was feeling a bit better, and the minute his back touched the cushions of the couch, he fell asleep soundly and entered another memory. 

He saw his brother smiling, and he knew it wasn’t real. But for a second, he thought it was, and for that brief moment, glitch of his mind, he was relieved. 

He was forgiven. 

***

Sometimes it felt both like an odd casualty and a superpower to find Laurent in a crowd. 

Like a compass, his eyes always darted to that golden head amongst the crowd. A telescope, finding a constellation. 

Damen’s breath always stopped at the sight of him. His heart spread warmth all over the map of his body. A spirit inside of him bloomed. 

_I have singled you out from the world._

And it was either his own luck, or fate, that their encounters were always reduced to a series of different meet-cutes that started as Damen turned his gaze — and there he was, his human universe, his daytime shooting star; Laurent, laughing, daring him to catch frogs in a pond in Marlas, and then crying, hitting him, shouting words of hatred. And then sad, and nervous, and cautious. Confused. 

Finally, though, recently, he’d been happy. Affectionate. Gentle. 

Each time, however, the words echoed in his head. _Suddenly, I see you._

_Here, I’ve found you._

Which is why that, as the days went by without a word from Laurent, Damen started to worry. He usually tried to avoid overthinking too much, as it never did him well in the past and it certainly wouldn’t change anything now. He was twenty-eight years old, and he liked the feeling of having his life more or less sorted out.

So he worried. Because it was Laurent, and Laurent had always been unexpected. Sometimes he said and did things that didn’t make much sense, and it took Damen a good deal of years to be able to understand his personality. 

Still, when his messages went unresponded and his calls directed to voicemail, he felt bubbles of anxiety rising from the pit of his stomach. 

Had he said something wrong the last time they’d seen each other? They’d been out, getting Damen a new phone as Laurent had so promised, and they’d even fought on whether Laurent had to pay it or not — which he obviously didn’t have to, but Damen had to let him get his way or they’d stayed fighting at the shop’s counter for the rest of the day. 

After that, however, they’d been to have an early dinner and taken a stroll around the city. He couldn’t remember anything that was wrong or somewhat off. Work had been busier for Laurent lately, unlike his own job which was starting to become a bit monotone after the deal with his clients had been signed and started production. 

Perhaps he was reading too much into it? 

Perhaps so. But that didn’t stop him from cancelling his last meeting of the day and driving the company’s rental towards Laurent’s apartment. There was traffic, which was odd for the time as it wasn’t even near peak hour, but soon he found out they’d closed a few streets to make space for what seemed to be a farmer’s market near one of the small parks belonging to the adjacent apartment complex. 

So he had an idea, although it felt more like remembering an idea. As he got out of the car and walked towards the stalls, the scene played in his head and he saw Auguste. They were probably twelve, maybe a bit older, fourteen and Laurent was around eight and in a bad mood because he’d had to go to the dentist to get a milk tooth extracted. Damen remembered his red blotchy face, annoyed and sometimes whining and crying over how badly it hurt. How his mouth tasted like blood. 

Auguste had paused whatever they had been doing to take Laurent to the kitchen. He’d pulled out a can of whipped cream and a bag full of strawberries, then proceeded to make the biggest fruit parfait Damen had seen in his life. 

And Laurent had smiled, between mouthfuls of cream and finely chopped strawberries. It was funny because he was missing one of the front teeth. 

He grinned to himself even now, making his way through the stalls, looking for strawberries. Maybe cherries and peaches too, but mostly strawberries. He found them soon enough, as they were in season and the smell was beyond mouth-watering. 

He picked the whipped cream next from a lady selling dairy products next to a giant freezer, and as he went to continue towards a man selling summer bouquets, he stopped.

Laurent was a few stalls away, near a family selling locally produced white wine. His almost-shoulder length hair was tied up in a bun, a few strands falling around the frame of his glasses. He was wearing simple loungewear, a plain cardigan over a shirt and a pair of gray joggers. 

_Suddenly, I see you._

Damen took another step, and then one more. He counted them, until he was a few inches away and Laurent looked at him. 

He saw the surprise display masquerading the sadness and paleness of his features. The bags under his eyes were darker and he looked tired. Nevertheless, his eyes still gleamed as they found his own. 

And that’s when the flashback came back again, and he saw the three of them eating strawberries and cream. And he remembered the date, the month, the year. 

Auguste. 

“Hey,” he breathed out, reaching over, hand on his elbow, pulling him towards him a little.

Laurent didn’t brush his hand away. Simply, he said, “Hey,” and then, “What are you doing here?” with a softness that wasn’t his own, “This is nowhere near the hotel.”

Damen considered lying, but gave up quickly on the thought. He wasn’t good for that. “I was…” he started, felt his cheeks flush a bit, “I was just shopping for a few things before going to check up on you.” Laurent blinked, Damen looked down at the basket full of fresh fruits and cream. Carefully, he asked, “Are you okay?”

Laurent swallowed before answering, taking the bottle of wine between both hands, “I wasn’t feeling well. Work has been a lot. It’s...one of those weeks.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“Well...I got these for you,” Damen said, offering him the basket, “They’re paid for.”

He blinked again, his mind shifting between here and somewhere else. A place Damen didn’t have access to. After a second or two, he reacted, grabbing the basket, “Thank you.” Then, something clicked in his eyes and he spoke again, “Oh...you don’t want to come home after all?”

“I don’t want to bother you,” although he very much wanted to go home and take care of him because he felt this _need_ to, “If you’re not feeling well still.”

Gently, almost sweetly, Laurent gave him a shy smile, “You don’t bother me.”

With the same amount of affection, Damen tucked a loose stubborn curl behind his ear, another step closer, “You sure?”

Laurent simply nodded, opting to grab his hand, leading them to his place. They were quiet during the whole way, but Damen didn’t mind. After all, it was always like this. He always found Laurent first, but Laurent was the one who discovered him. 

It suddenly came to him, as they entered the building, that he’d really never been past the main door. And it was nice, cooler inside, a set of marbled stairs leading to different corridors with thick wooden doors. 

The apartment was more spacious than Damen had imagined, with decent sized furniture in blue, white and red colours. The balcony doors next to the living room were open, letting in the lazy afternoon sun and the sounds of bees and birds flapping and chirping around. 

Cozy. Definitely mediterrenean, but homey. 

A voice could be heard from one of the closed bedrooms, his ears picking up on what seemed to be another language. 

“Nicaise?” he guessed as he followed Laurent into the kitchen. 

Nodding, “He’s dealing with a client in Beijing.” And then, briefly glancing over as he unpacked the fruits, “He won’t mind that you’re here. If that’s what you’re wondering.”

Damen had, although only for a millisecond. He smiled as a reaction, wondering if he understood Laurent at least as half as well as he understood him. Sometimes it seemed like they were not even on the same page but on the very same paragraph, standing over the same words. And some other times, the bad ones, they seemed to be thousands of miles away from an understanding. 

Perhaps it was the way of the world. 

~~Perhapstheyweredestinatedtohateeachotherasmuchastheylovedtheother lookatmepleaseallweeverdoisfightsowhy~~

Damen moved behind him, placing his hands on each side of Laurent’s slim waist, slowly sliding them forward, around his stomach. He kissed his cheek, “Should we cut some strawberries, then?” 

Laurent tensed under his touch, and Damen thought that Laurent would push him away, or step hard on his foot to make him back off. He thought he’d screwed up and was considering his options of coming away unharmed, until Laurent relaxed and tilted his head back a little. 

“Are we making parfaits?” 

“If you feel like it.”

“It’s funny,” he whispered, “I feel like we did this already.”

They had, only Damen didn’t have the heart to tell Laurent about that far-off memory. He didn’t have the guts yet, to voice it outloud. To crack back open the precipice between them. 

“Maybe we did in a dream.”

“Or another life.”

They smiled, not quite to each other, and without another word, they set off to wash and chop the fruit Damen had bought. Once it was done, they built three parfaits in more or less equal amounts in the biggest mugs there were in the kitchen. 

After giving Nicaise one, they settled comfortably in the couch to eat and watch a silly old American comedy film on the tv, Laurent leaving his empty mug aside and shifting slowly until he was completely lay down with his head on Damen’s lap, strands of golden hair through his fingers as Laurent hummed then laughed at random sarcastic insults thrown at the main character. 

_Forever_ , he thought, because he couldn’t quite focus on the film. _Forever. Free._

And he saw a glimpse of what ~~his~~ their life could be.

“I like your face,” he whispered.

Laurent shifted again, the movement tickling him. He looked up at Damen, “Is that your way of telling me I’m pretty?”

“No.” It was more than being pretty. “I like your face because it’s yours,” then, he reached out to cup his face with a hand, “Even in darkness, I would recognize the features of your face. I’d recognize it through change. If I could memorize the lines that make your nose,” he traced it with a finger, “Your eyes,” and again, “Your lips,” _again_ , “Even without the sound of your voice or the light of your hair, I would find you again.” 

Damen felt the moment Laurent shivered, then whispered back, “I think you’re pretty, too.” And he laughed, or tried to, as Laurent pulled him down for a kiss and he sunk deep into it. 

“I forget I can do this now,” Laurent said, smiling against his lips.

“Let me remind you.” And it was Damen’s turn to kiss him. 

Damen’s heart, which had been so tightly closed after years of grief, and guilt and confusion and doing the opposite of what he always wanted to, started to open. Damen’s heart, which lay bare in Laurent’s hands, started to beat to the sound of a symphony. 

And all those billion little pieces that lay scattered were pulled back into their places. It wasn’t just happiness. It wasn’t just an adventure. It wasn’t a challenge, it wasn’t a game, it wasn’t one summer.

~~It was love. It had always been love.~~

It was the reality that made both memories and dreams. A thought that grew until it was a wish, and then true. 

***

“I shouldn't go in there, I'll be set aflame.” 

He watched Damen roll his eyes, “Don't be silly.”

“I’m serious.”

“Isn't a great part of art related to religion? Maybe there's something nice in there.”

Laurent scoffed, “I don’t know about that but you'll definitely find homophobia.”

A sigh, “If smoke starts to come off your head, we can go back.”

Uncrossing his arms, he pointed a finger at Damen, “I'll scream if I start burning.”

“Yes, yes,” hooking his arm around Laurent’s, “Come on now.”

The rain caught them at the worst moment. They were just walking back from an afternoon playing around with that carousel box of theirs when the downpour started. It was too heavy and too sudden for them to do anything except to try and run to the nearest structure that could give them shelter. 

And that, ~~un~~ fortunately, happened to be the local church. 

The doors were so heavy and tightly shut, for a minute they thought they were closed, but after pushing through, they managed to step inside away from the thunder that had been chasing them. 

Laurent wished he could feel relieved, though. He only felt strangely defensive. “I haven't been in a church since high school.” 

“To be honest, I’ve never minded that much. I liked the quietness.”

Looking around, he realized they were the only ones inside. No priest or awkward nun inside. No weeping women exchanging promises to the nothing and the statues. Just them, fingers already looking for their pairs. His voice gave a small echo as he said, quietly, “I guess there is something peaceful about an empty church.”

“See?” Damen smiled, “There's not even incense smoke.”

“Fine, but the moment a priest shows up with a bible, I’m out.”

Damen grinned, “Don’t touch the holy water, though.” Then winked, “Just to be safe.”

Then he got an idea. An awful idea. Laurent had a wonderful, awful idea.

Passing the box to Damen, he said, “I dare you to drink it.”

Damen regarded him as if he had grown a second head, “People stick their hands in there!” 

“It’s holy!” Laurent smirked, “I'm sure your _god_ will protect you from an infection.”

Damen took a big breath, closed his eyes for a second, then moved towards the pillar and the vase containing the holy water near the entrance. He brought his hands down, cupped enough and brought it to his mouth at once, gulping it once. 

A part of him wanted to laugh, the other part wanted to gag. “That's fucking disgusting, I'm not kissing you unless you brush your teeth with bleach.”

Exhasperated, “You fucking dared me to!” And then, chasing him a little, “Come here, give me a kiss.”

Laurent yelped, then stepped away, running a bit down towards the aisle and laughing, “I don't wanna die of hand chlamydia!”

“Hand chlamydia?” Damen’s laugh echoed, “Really?”

“Either that or third degree burns from God's wrath.”

“Just a little peck!”

“Get those fucking nasty lips away from me!”

“Don't curse in a church!”

He was ready to scream from the top of his lungs a big, _‘Fuck you’_ when Damen caught him, placing a hand over his mouth. Laurent bit him, Damen made a grossed out sound and they separated, laughing again.

It was like a dance. A little dance they practiced every day, until they had memorized each of their movements. All of it a performance inside their little bubble, entertainment for themselves only. Their voices carried out through the walls and high ceilings, and if anyone else had been there to hear them, they’d believed it had been two angels playing around. 

Or two demons, breaking havoc. 

They studied the statues, half seriously, half jokingly, but mostly as they would any other works of art. The best part was, however, the stained-glass windows and the rainbow-like light that entered, illuminating the dais. The rain cascaded a line of shadows that only added to the atmosphere. And suddenly, they were quiet again, hands linked together. 

“I love these windows,” Damen whispered, caressing Laurent’s knuckles, “They’re probably blown glass you know?”

Bored, “You brought me inside a church to appreciate the coloured glass?”

“You could sound more excited.” 

Laurent grinned, “Excite me, then.” 

“Is that a dare, De Vere?” Damen smiled, one of his reckless, dangerous smiles, “It’s not your turn.” 

“Then play, Damianos.”

“Okay,” he said, passing him back the box. He leaned over his ear and Laurent shivered. In a whisper, “Don’t make a sound.”

***

And Laurent tried, for the life of him, not to make a sound.

Not as Damen led him into one of the confession boxes to the right side of the church. Not as they entered and closed the door quietly behind them. Not as Damen pushed him against one of the tiny walls in an incredibly uncomfortable position, only to get on his knees in front of him, a mischievous shine in his eyes as Laurent —wideyed— realized what he was about to do.

Then, he whispered, “Can I do this for you?”

Laurent closed his eyes, tried to take a breath without making a pitch sound that was in the back of his head, raising to his own throat. Then he looked back down, and to Damen’s warm, brown eyes, he nodded in a _Yes_. 

~~_Can I sing this to you? I’ve got a thing about you._ ~~

Quietly, Damen unzipped his jeans. They were light blue denim, ripped, soft cotton. Laurent felt the echoing beats of his heart in his entire body. His thoughts, reduced to panicking blurbs of everything he would be saying, had he not been dared quiet. 

_I’m going to die._

_I must die._

And he was. The moment Damen pulled him out and into his mouth, Laurent swore he died, and then came back to life in flashes of pleasure. 

It was too much for him to handle. It was years of desiring someone so much it was now building up inside him, ready to be set loose. And whenever he took a peak at Damen, taking the length of him like the body of Christ, he was sure he would start crying. 

Damen’s own pleasure became using his tongue trying to exert sounds out of him. He was trying to make him lose the dare, and for a slight moment, Laurent thought _to hell with this all_. He considered losing, but one look at the carousel box was all it took to know he could get revenge on this.

He would win, and then make Damen pay. 

The fucker must have read his mind, for he soon found himself biting his tongue against what would have been a loud moan, arching his back in resonance. 

Damen just grinned. His lips were swollen, a bit of saliva dripping down. He looked beautiful.

“You look like an angel,” Damen said.

Laurent bit his hand in an attempt to suppress a gasp. His entire body wanted to give in, but his mind was still playing the game. And thus they were going in opposite directions, making Laurent’s brain cells short-circuit. 

_Damen,_ he thought.

_Damen._

_My Damen._

If he wasn’t focused on keeping himself from thinning his vocal cords raw, he would have laughed at the irony. _Got my dick sucked in the house of God._

 _Live with confidence_ , the poet in him quoted, _Living is itself the source of sin._

His hands fumbled to find Damen’s wild, dark curls, and he pulled on them hard as he realized he was about to—

Laurent had no time to think. He shuddered all over, and by the time he wanted to warn Damen, he had already spilled himself into his mouth at once. Damen swallowed, and Laurent wanted to kill him, then kiss him, then die inside of him again and again. 

He tried to breathe. His energy went solely onto breathing properly again while Damen wiped his mouth against the back of his hand. With the last of his force, he grabbed a fist of Damen’s shirt by the shoulder and pulled him up to kiss him. Their mouths clashed together wrong, it was too hard and messy, but it was good. 

Better than he’d ever had in his life. 

And that’s when the door opened. And thus the curtains we closed. 

***

Open the curtains, and there were two boys and their carousel box, hand-cuffed in the back of a police car in a foreign country. 

Laurent, true to himself, said, “I told you so.”

Damen retorted, “You did not.”

“But I meant to.”

“You jinxed it, that’s what you did.”

“Excuse me,” Laurent said, offended, “Who suggested to suck my dick in a church in one of the most fervent catholic countries in the world?”

After a minute, Damen snapped back, “I didn’t hear any complaints then.”

…

“I was supposed to keep quiet.” 

They stared at each other, then looked back to the police men exchanging words in Italian. Against it all, laughter started as a high in their bodies. 

They were out of their goddamn minds. 

“The cuffs are kinda kinky.” Damen said, biting his lip. 

Laurent, who couldn’t take it anymore, said between quiet convulsions, “Stop.”

It was all fun and games, until they arrived at the station and Laurent came to the awful, slow realization that he could only call one person. 

Damen sat next to him in a cold, slightly dirty and foul smelling prison cell, “He's your friend right?”

 _It’s complicated._ “Sure.”

“Well, I can't call anyone at work, so call him.”

“You don’t understand.”

Damen shrugged, “How bad can it be?”

“You've met him before, but you _don't_ _know_.”

“Do you want to spend the rest of your life in an Italian jail? Laurent, these people have the Vatican.” 

“He takes joy in this kind of thing, it'll be painful for everyone involved.” After exchanging a look, Laurent sighed, “I'm just warning you.”

“It can’t be more painful than jail.”

But it was more painful than jail, and that’s something they had to find out later, after Laurent had made his call and Nicaise had chatted rather amicably with the police men, a smile stretching from ear to ear as he was filled in the details of the bail he was set to pay. 

He took his sweet time walking towards them in the cell, arms crossed over his chest and eyebrows raised in appraisal, “You nasty little whores.” 

If there was some kind of divine force ruling the universe, Laurent thought it’d be a good moment to call upon them. Bring him some kind of punishment that would end in his fulminant death. 

“Damianos,” Nicaise grinned. His accent was heavily remarked by the obvious joy he was getting out of this situation, “It’s a pleasure to see you again... especially on such an occasion.”

Damen didn’t know what to do. Clearly. Laurent wanted to tell him yet again how this had been a bad idea, “I wish I could say the same.”

Laurent leaned his head against the wall behind them, then to Nicaise, said, “Please don't do this.”

“Fine,” he said, “I'll go straight to the point. Whose idea was it?”

Turning his eyes to Damen, Laurent gave him a cold look that clearly meant, ‘ _Deny everything_ ’ in bold capital letters. 

Nicaise glanced from his face to Damen’s, tapping fingers over his arm, “This will be over faster if you just cooperate.”

Damen falted, and so Laurent pinched his arm hard to keep him from talking. “Why do you need to know?”

“Laurent, honey, it's not often when I come across a situation like this. Please let me have this.”

“You're a psychopath.”

Pulling under his right eye, Nicaise made a face at them, “I'm not the one in handcuffs.”

“It was my idea,” Damen said, finally, head shaking a little as in disapproval of their bickering. 

Turning to him, Laurent hissed, “Shut the fuck up,” and then, clearly betrayed, “Don't encourage him.”

“Lo, I'm tired and I want to leave this place,” He grimaced, “Also, my knees are sore.”

To which Nicaise laughed, clearly delighted. “Not a lot of men could resist Laurent's charms, I know. But this is a first. How naughty.” 

Laurent swallowed, then sighed loudly, “Please just pay the bail.”

“Oh I will. But first, how was it?”

“Pay the bail, Nicaise.”

“Was he good?”

“I'm not gonna repeat myself.”

A chuckle, “Did you even get to come before the cops interrupted you?”

Laurent flinched as if struck, “You are so disgusting and intrusive.”

Nicaise’s eyes darted from his to Damen’s, looking for whatever more information he needed to make their lives a living hell from then on. Satisfied at last, he smiled, “I'm gonna take that as a _yes_.”

***

“Wait,” Aimeric said, “What?”

Nicaise nodded, closing his eyes and letting out a sigh. “Yes.”

The meaning behind the words hit Aimeric like a truck. Nicaise saw it in the way disbelief settled in his features as he repeated them one by one, “They were,” and then, “in a church…”

“Yes.”

“Well,” the other boy said after a while, “That’s a first.”

“You should've seen their faces, they were mortified,” he grinned, then it softened into a small smile, remembering the looks Laurent and Damen were giving each other. As though they were the only people alive. “But...happy.” 

“And I'm sure you teased them about it.”

“You know me, poppet.”

To that, Aimeric just laughed. Surprised would be an understatement, were he to describe exactly what he felt the moment Laurent had called him to bail them out. But then again, Laurent and Damen had been going on and about with that game of theirs, jumping on moving cars, stealing from shops, confusing people on the street and who knows what else. 

So really, the fact that they had finally landed in jail was expected. The _why_ was the thing that kept him thinking and thinking, until he’d finally given up and called Aimeric. Half to gossip, half to voice out his concerns to someone else who might not think he was just being purposefully mean. 

Nicaise didn’t know Damen, and this side of Laurent had been too hidden for Nicaise to see early on, which bothered him, since Nicaise was the kind of person to take pride in reading others. He liked being one step ahead of everyone else, and that had changed when he met Laurent. 

Although they were good friends, Nicaise didn’t have the trajectory or the level of trust Laurent shared with Aimeric, and sometimes it was too hard to try and understand whatever crossed his mind. 

Basically, what Nicaise was looking for now, was a translator. From Laurent’s language to his own. 

“Who is this Damen person anyway?” Nicaise said, rolling out a cigarette on the little table he kept in the balcony. It would get dark soon. He made a mental note to finish packing the last of his suitcases. 

_One thing at a time._

Aimeric scratched his head, leaned back against the chair he was sitting on. It was still early in Marlas and he was working at the pastry shop. He had flour on half of his face. “He didn't tell you, did he? Of course he wouldn't.” When Nicaise didn’t answer, he continued, “Damen was Auguste’s best friend. He was the one to start the game.”

Nicaise stopped, cigarette ready in hand, “Auguste,” then, “You mean Lo’s—?”

“Brother, yes. That Auguste.” 

They never talked about Auguste. No one ever mentioned him, and the poor information Nicaise had gathered over the years wasn’t enough to even get the full picture of who he had been and what had happened to him, or the effect his death had had on Laurent. Apparently, as Aimeric had told him once, he had arrived after the worst of the storm had passed. And so there were too many things Nicaise didn’t know, and no one who was willing to tell them. 

It didn’t take a genius to realize, however, that this wasn’t normal behaviour. And that was enough for him to be concerned. 

“Damen was in the accident,” Aimeric said, “He was the one driving. They hadn’t seen each other since that night. At least as far as I know.”

“Call me old fashioned,” Nicaise said, a hint of irony in his voice as he watched the people go down the street, “But that doesn’t add up to the obscenities they were doing inside that church.”

Aimeric looked away, then back at his phone, “I always expected them to reunite. But the timing…”

“I know you both never give a damn about what I think,” which was true, and the truth didn’t hurt. Or at least that’s how Nicaise’s mind was used to work, “But _I think_ this is too much.”

Rolling his eyes, Aimeric dismissed his dramatism, “We _do_ care, your ways are just too annoying sometimes. But you are kinda right,” he nodded, “This is too much. Lo...did use to have a crush on Damen and it didn't end well for him.”

A shadow crossed Aimeric’s face as he said so, but it was gone before Nicaise could question him about it. How badly, he wondered.

How exactly had it happened, that it was simply not even addressed? 

He swallowed, then lit up his cigarette. He’d been smoking more and more lately; an uneasiness inside of him, manifesting in the last and least of his own vices. “Would it make me a bad friend if I confessed I don’t think it will end well now?”

Aimeric was silent for a moment, then admitted, “No. It just makes you your usual observant asshole self. And it’s not like I’m there to pick up on these things myself anyway.”

“Well I'm going away for a couple weeks, so I suppose we’ll both be in the dark then.”

“You know Nic, as much as I think you being worried is endearing, you need to let them figure this out on their own.”

He took a long drag, then blew a cloud of smoke away, “Can we trust them to actually do figure it out?”

With a timid smile, Aimeric just shrugged, “We're gonna have to.”

It wasn’t the answer he wanted. In the past, it was another comment he would have dismissed before proceeding to do as he liked. 

But Nicaise wanted to be a good friend now. He was trying. So all he could do was sit and wait to see the story unfold. 

Resigned, he took one last look up at the last trails of orange skies, and hoped for the best. 

***

Laurent arrived home to a suitcase by the door and the unsettling quietness that precedes a departure. 

And it wasn’t new nor unexpected. By now, he’d learnt to take Nicaise’s trips as he would the change of the weather; annoyed, perhaps, but ultimately accepting. 

The nature of Nicaise’s job prevented all possibilities of a warning or some preparation. When they asked him to leave, he would always have to leave. Fortunately for the sake of their friendship, he always came back. 

Laurent slid off his shoes quietly, taking in the rays of the blue hour through the windows and the breeze entering from the opened balcony. 

“Nicaise?” he called. 

He waited, but there was no answer. _Probably smoking._

Quietly, he made his way to the balcony, his suspicions confirmed as the pungent smell of nicotine reached his nostrils. Nicaise’s silhouette could be seen against the last rays of a splending setting summer sun. A lonely ghost, inhaling poison, exhaling repressed emotion. 

They were so similar it was uncanny. 

And it wasn’t that Nicaise looked particularly sad, not really. He never looked much like anything. Expressionless except for his sinful smiles, it was hard to read him. 

But sometimes it felt like they were each other’s mirrors. Sometimes they were too much in tune; violinist and accompanist playing the same song. 

So he knew there was something, but he didn’t have the right questions to ask. 

“Hey,” Laurent said, coming to lean on the railing next to him. 

Nicaise didn’t bother to turn. He took another drag, instead. “You’re late today.”

“Long day at work,” he shrugged, stretching his arms until he heard a _pop_ from his wrist, “Where are you going this time?”

“They need me in Canada for a few days,” and then, “Think you can survive until I’m back?”

“Much to my regret, but I will see to keep myself breathing until you return.”

“Okay, Jane Austen.”

Laurent bumped his shoulder playfully and Nicaise returned it a bit too strongly. They remained like that for a minute or two, watching the sky and the city ahead of them. When he spoke again, he did so softly, almost shyly, “Are you okay?”

Nicaise side-eyed him, then shook his head, “I'm worried you'll trash the place with your _boyfriend_.”

Laurent arched an eyebrow, “He’s not—” 

The accusatory look on Nicaise’s face made him stop. Instead, he said, “I wouldn’t do that. You know I wouldn’t.”

With a shrug, Nicaise stubbed the last of his cigarette out. Ironically, “You're full of surprises lately.”

“What? Are you jealous?”

Nicaise rolled his eyes, “I don't do blue collar and you know it.”

“Then what is it? Spill it out.”

“I have nothing to tell you.”

“Does that mean you hate Damen now?”

“He’s terribly handsome, I could never.”

Narrowing his eyes, Laurent crossed his arms on his chest, “Have you been talking to Aimeric behind my back again?”

“Aimeric is not your property you know.”

“I know that. You corrupted him enough in college.”

Nicaise scoffed, “Nonsense, he was a little demon before I met him.”

There was a moment where neither of them said anything. A second of silence in which Laurent debated whether to keep prying or let it be. The odds of getting into a fight with Nicaise minutes before he left the country weren’t worth wherever the conversation was going. 

But before he could dwell on it further, Nicaise spoke again, “You really like him, don’t you?” 

He blinked. It took him a second to realize what he was talking about. Well, _whom_. 

Damen. 

“I—” Laurent felt as though someone had grabbed onto his insides and mixed them all together. There was something in the way Nicaise said it, something that didn’t add up in his head. He liked Damen. He really liked him. He— “Why are you asking me this now?”

“Just curious.”

“Curious?”

“You’ve got mail today,” and his eyes caught his, holding them in place, frozen in another second before letting go, “From Greece.”

The words shouldn’t have landed as hard as they did. He wished he didn’t understand them and the meaning Nicaise was giving them. 

He wished he didn’t notice his heart rate spiking up and the twitch of his fingers. The sudden want of a cigarette, the urge of finding another lie, crafting a better version of what it was. 

But he couldn’t. And even if he tried, Nicaise wouldn’t let him now. 

_Why do you care?_ It was at the tip of his tongue. But he didn’t manage to say anything in response as Nicaise’s phone went off. His driver, it seemed, ready to take him to the airport. 

And this is how the story would follow. 

Nicaise would leave him, and he would stay in that balcony until it was so dark he wouldn’t see his own fingers trembling in the dark. Until he blended in with the shadows and became unaware of his own pathetic existence.

He would open a bottle of wine and sit down and ignore the fact that he was trapped. Ignore the voice inside his head that said an omission of truth was an equal lie, if not worse. 

Ignore Nicaise’s voice resonating long after he was gone. A mock. 

_“You’ve got mail. From Greece.”_

And he would try to convince himself, arrogantly, that he had done nothing wrong. That he wasn’t in a relationship. That it had all been too casual. 

That he—who?— hadn’t meant anything. 

That it wasn’t a big deal. 

And after all that, he would find the postcard, carefully resting on top of his bed. And he would read the words, and he would hate himself ten times more than he did before. 

Laurent would see his name in Fabio’s messy, cursive handwriting, and then the flashes of every scene they’d shared together. He would think of his eyes and his laughter and hear his own voice saying his name as they made love. 

And it would be too much. 

_Pity yourself,_ he thought, _for you can’t love him back._

_Pity yourself for trying._

_And pity them both for believing you._

But right before that, Laurent said, against the scorn and anxiety pooling in his chest, “Have a good flight.” And he meant it. 

Nicaise pulled him into a rather awkward hug with one arm around his shoulders. Laurent let him. “Take care of yourself, Laurent.” 

And he knew Nicaise meant it. 

It was easier this way. It was easier to hold onto a lie and the person he thought he was. It was easier to watch Nicaise leave without saying goodbye. It was easier to never tell Damen who Fabio was. It had been a deliberate choice; hurtful although not intentionally out of any malice. 

It was just easier. 

To pretend he could have it all. 

To blame it all on a little game. 

“You too.”

Pity yourself, Laurent, for the damage you’re about to cause. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello guys, happy halloween! 
> 
> This is definitely not a Halloween chapter but it's the thought that counts, right? 
> 
> Well, to be fair, many bombs were dropped. This is one of my favourite chapters so far. I just enjoyed writing it so much and it took me way less time than usual, but I blame that on my poor mental health and it's awful coping mechanisms = overworking myself till I'm dead)
> 
> Anygay! At first I was not sure about having three different POVs in this chapter but in the end it worked to convey exactly what I wanted. Thing is, every story has more than one angle, and particularly in Linger, Laurent and Damen's actions will end up having consequences on those around them. Therefore, it was important to have another pair of eyes at the end. 
> 
> Besides that, just wanted to say again how thankful I am for the support. You guys make my days. Writing this has been the highlight of such an awful year, and just seeing how much you're enjoying it means A LOT to me. So thank you so much, and thank you to Ana, Ellen and demon-friend as well for all their help. 
> 
> "Live with confidence. Living is itself the source of sin." quote by Osamu Dazai. 
> 
> On another topic, I haven't been feeling well and Chapter 14 is still in progress. I will try my very best to finish it in time, but if that isn't the case, I hope you can all forgive me and wait a little bit longer <3
> 
> That's it from me. Take care out there, and enjoy this spooky weekend!


	16. Act II: Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check the ending notes for translations of certain Italian dialogues.

It all started with a pretty box, a pretty girl, and a confused Laurent. 

It had taken a full minute for his brain to register that the box that had been oh so carefully —and secretly— placed inside his school desk was actually for him. 

And this is why: first of all, it was completely pink, in the shape of a heart, with silver lace keeping it from opening. Second of all, it smelled of perfume —a specific one, sweet yet floral, that he’d smelled on someone before. Lastly, it had the name of a girl. A pretty one that is, and one of his classmates. 

_ From: Lena. _

In the midst of his confusion, he had thought it was meant for someone else. But just as he was about to ask the guy that usually sat next to him, he saw his name, neatly handwritten in silver ink.

_ To: Laurent.  _

Just like that, he short circuited. 

Valentine’s Day wasn’t something he cared much about. He’d never received candies or chocolates from someone else that wasn’t his mom or teachers that didn’t want anyone to feel left out. Or Auguste, but technically he never gave them to him, Laurent just stole them. 

So this was new, to say the least. And unexpected.

And a problem. 

Before anyone else could actually notice much about what was going on, he shoved the box and what seemed to be a letter in his school bag and pretended it had never happened. He gathered his things and said goodbye to Aimeric on his way out of the classroom, then made it straight for the school gates to get his bike. 

The only thing he could manage to think of, as he rode back home, was why on earth did she have to pick him. Perhaps, if he wasn’t panicking over what the kind of response he’d have to give her, he would feel rather flattered. 

But Laurent was very, very gay. He was sure of it now at fifteen as much as he had been sure at twelve and even a bit before that. He’d never had an interest in girls. He’d never felt anything towards a girl, unlike Auguste, who apparently had begun his innocent romances very young, as his mom liked to say whenever she wanted to embarrass him.

Painfully pushing through his adolescent years, Laurent de Vere was at least sure of one thing; he liked boys. He always noticed them first. If ever an emotion sparked within him, it was probably a product of his hormones and the older guys he watched from afar sometimes.

~~ Okay, maybe one older guy.  ~~

And Lena; she was wicked smart. One of the top students of their class. She was pretty, too, with a cupid’s bow mouth and the poise and grace of a living doll. 

Brown eyes and hair the same colour, falling on a wavy bob a bit above her shoulders. Girly, in a way that would be called either cute or annoying by other girls, although she apparently didn’t care. What always caught his attention, one way or another, was the dangling earrings she liked to wear. They made a pair: the moon and the sun. Absentmindedly he always thought they suited her. 

In spite of this, he only knew the exterior of her, for they’d never really talked much. Once or twice during projects at school, but never more than that. 

Odd.

His confusion only got worse when he got home and sat at the kitchen booth to open the box. It was full of heart-shaped vanilla cookies with a red jelly center that was probably strawberry. Between them all, in random corners and places, there were small chocolate-shaped hearts. He put one of them in his mouth and let it melt as he opened and read the letter next.

…

A declaration of love. 

She said she liked him. She said that she’d made the cookies herself, and that she hoped he liked them. That he didn’t need to respond, but she’d appreciate it if he did. 

_ “I like you very much, Laurent de Vere. Happy Valentine's Day.”  _

Well, fuck. 

_ Well, fuck.  _ The least he wanted was to hurt her or seem mean. But he’d never talked to her before, or girls in general, so he actually had no clue how to subtly reject someone who’d clearly poured her heart out in chocolates for him. No pun intended. 

“Are those cookies?” 

Looking up, Laurent saw his brother watching him while leaning his back on the fridge. He had his bag and keys in hand, but Laurent hadn’t heard the door at all. Maybe he’d been overthinking too loud again. 

“Yes,” Laurent said, and Auguste took it as the opening to drop his stuff on the counter and come closer to the booth. 

He took in sight of the many hearts inside the pink box and smiled knowingly, “Well, she certainly knows you, little brother.”

With a sigh, Laurent pushed his glasses up to his hair and rubbed his eyes, “I haven’t even talked to her that much.”

“Is she in your class?”

He nodded, pressing his hands to his face and squinting at both the blindness and the kitchen lights. “We’ve had projects together before.”

As he said so, Laurent saw the silhouette of something in movement, and quickly smacked Auguste’s hand away from the box, then put his glasses back on. “No.”

“Come on, Lo,” Auguste whined, “Share some with your nice and adoring older brother.”

He rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest, “Where are  _ your _ chocolates? You always get a bunch.”

Too many, he’d say. Laurent remembered vaguely a time when he and Damen had competed to see who received more chocolates on Valentine’s Day, and it had been a draw. Not surprising. He could tell his brother had a certain charm with the opposite sex that obviously he lacked. And he was deemed not just beautiful but also attractive. 

Damen, on the other hand, was a subject of a more objective perspective. Or so Laurent liked to tell himself. 

The undeniable fact was that each year, Damen got a little bit more splendid. He aged like fine wine, as people said in the movies, and Laurent was sipping a whole bottle drop by drop. 

It was too much for his emotions and his hormones. And he’d always had the silly idea, since he was younger than he was now, of giving him something for Valentine’s Day. Chocolates and...stuff. 

But it was ridiculous. It was childish. It would have been adorable when he was six years old. Now it would only be weird. Lame. 

And he couldn’t live with Damen tagging him as weird. Not when they’d been doing so well now, ever since the game. They’d gotten closer. 

Auguste sighed dramatically, playfully pushing him to sit down next to him, “I didn’t get any this year.”

With a bored expression, in spite of the flush that rose to his cheeks, Laurent grabbed a cookie and bit into it. “What’s next, pigs flying? The plague?” 

Then the sugar melted in his mouth, and he was taken to paradise. They weren’t like Aimeric’s, by now he knew those recipes by heart. These were less elaborate but the perfect balance between chewy and firm. The strawberry jelly wasn’t overwhelming in the slightest, and he found himself licking the stickiness from his thumb. 

Auguste groaned, laying his head on the table and watching him, “You’re torturing me.” 

“Do you like to get them that much?” he asked, quietly, “Cards and gifts?”

“Of course, who doesn’t like free sweets?”

“ _ Auguste _ .”

“Lo,” his brother sighed, “I don’t know. I mean, it’s flattering and all, but...in the end I guess it just matters if it’s from a special person.”

_ Do you think I’m special?  _

The thought hurt like a punch to his heart. He grabbed another cookie. “What do you look for in a girl?”

“Well,” Auguste thought for a moment, scratching his head, “You know...have you ever thought of someone and the image of them in your head makes you smile?”

_ Yes, yes, yes.  _

After a second, he said, “...I guess.”

“Right, and then...you know, when you’re with them, you get the butterflies in your stomach? And you are so nervous but so happy as well,” He smiled, “I’m not sure I have a ‘type’ per se, I just like girls that are clever and make me smile and feel silly. Does that make sense at all?”

“A little.”  _ Too much.  _ Auguste had described it perfectly. How he felt all the time, but without having the proper mind to recognize it for what it was. For  _ everything _ it was. “Have you ever sent a card yourself?”

“Oh yeah, once. I fell head over heels in love with a girl from another class. She was the prettiest girl I'd ever seen in my whole life. I wrote her a card for Valentine’s Day,” he chuckled a bit. “It was probably very bad. You know I’ve never had the best grammar to begin with.”

And then, “Anyway, she was very sweet but she didn’t like me back.”

Ironically, shamefully, Laurent thought,  _ If someone didn't like you then what's left for me.  _ God only knows he was never jealous or envious of Auguste. But sometimes the fact that it all came too easy for his brother made him feel good and bad at the same time.

Proud. Then self-conscious. And a little bit afraid. 

Plus, he didn’t want chocolates or girlfriends. He wanted…

The impossible. 

“Be a gentleman,” Auguste elbowed him softly, taking him out of his thoughts, “When you reject her.”

“Of course,” Laurent said, looking down at the box, noticing the soft pink paper Lena had used for the bottom, to keep the cookies in place. “I don't wanna hurt her. She's.. brave for doing this.”

_ I could never do the same. I probably never will.  _

“Good”, he smiled, “Now share me a cookie, come on. No one gives you chocolates for Valentine’s Day when you’re old like me.”

“You’re 21 years old.”

“Exactly, I’m a grandpa but without any grandkids.”

“What do you get now?” he asked, suddenly, his heart trying to end its poor life, “Are sweets... _ childish _ ?”

A shrug, “Nothing really. I mean it’s a bit more common if you have a partner. Maybe you can give them something or they can give you chocolates too. If I had a girlfriend, and unfortunately I do not, I would take her out to a nice restaurant perhaps.”

Laurent said nothing. The sweetness in his mouth was overcome by the dread coursing his veins. Why couldn’t it be just as simple to him as it was to his brother?

Why couldn’t he be as bold as Lena? 

Why was he himself and not someone else?

At his grim expression, Auguste tried to amend his words, “But sweets are never childish. Everyone loves sweets,” a wink, “Some more than others.”

Did Damen even like sweets? He’d seen him eat some, but apparently he preferred savory or even sour. He was a fan of those halloween candy worms that made one’s mouth hurt after a while. 

“Lo? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re making a strange face.”

“Strange how?”

“Could it be that you have a little crush on a boy?”

His cheeks went crimson so suddenly he was sure he’d have some sort of heart attack. But,  ~~ unfortunately ~~ , he didn’t. 

“Come ooon, tell your big brother. Who do I have to beat up?”

“You wouldn't.”

“Ahhh, so you really like him. You’re protecting him.”

He scoffed, “I don't like him!”

A satisfied grin on his face, Auguste seemed to mock him, “Uh huh.” Then, “Tell me, how is he?”

“He's not...like the rest.”

“They never are” he grinned in complicity, “Do you share some classes?”

“Uh, no.”

“Is he older?”

“I—I don't know.”

“You don't know?”

“Gus, stop. I don't even know if he likes me.”

“What? He must, you're my little brother. You're perfect.”

“I’m not.” He definitely wasn’t. Otherwise...maybe...he’d have a chance. “Like you said, he’s clever and funny...and it makes me feel silly.”

“Is that so?”

“I don't know what to do.”

“I don't know if I like this guy.”

His heart sunk, then gave a little twist, kicked his stomach, making him feel a bit ill. It definitely had a death wish, the thing, “What?” A white lie, “You don't know him.” 

“I may not but he's making you second guess yourself, Lo.”

“It’s not his fault.”

“Well either way, he clearly doesn’t know what he’s missing.”

“We play around a lot.” Laurent said, a bit too quietly. The words seemed bigger when they were sitting in their tiny little nook inside the kitchen. “He's kind too and I like his dimples.”

“Let me guess: dark curly hair? Brown eyes?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“It’s fine, you'll tell me when you're ready,” he ruffled his hair a little, Laurent closed his eyes as he always did, “I'll have the knives nice and sharp when you decide to bring him around.”

“Gus! You must promise me, you will never…”

Slowly, the memory faded away, as memories often do. Perhaps it was more a desire than a fact, a dream more than a reality. A kiss on his temple, so briefly he wouldn’t remember it after he awoke. 

But for that millisecond, it was there. It was true, and it reached him. 

It all ended with a pretty box, a pretty boy, and the saddest love story he ever told. 

***

Whistle past a graveyard, admit you’re not innocent. 

But there were no graveyards and he couldn’t whistle. All he could do, really, was hope that he could find a way out of this one. 

_ But there is no silence without a cry of grief, no forgiveness without bloodshed and no acceptance without a passage through acute loss.  _

There was no lying here that could protect him and no truth that could spare him. And something he was beginning to learn and that he would continue to experience was that it wasn’t enough to not want to hurt someone. 

Loving someone didn’t mean he was exempt from causing them great harm. 

If anything, he had an advantage to do so. Caring for people meant deciding not to use that advantage. It meant protecting the fragility that came with trust.

Just now, he’d broken it. 

Twice. Sort of. With two different people.

Laurent was trying to make sense of himself the way one would approach a beast in a cage. Carefully, nervously. In times like this, he always thought being himself was like playing a game of chess against an invisible force. He’d never win. 

Self-sabotaging much?

Distracted? Naive? 

Or perfectly aware?

What perspective would make it better? The knowing, the repenting — or the blissfully ignorant? 

It was horrible to think he could lose one of them. Even both. He rejected the idea so hard he could vomit. 

Laurent had pretended that nothing was happening for so long that in the end he had almost forgotten about it. Suddenly, the world didn’t matter. Except it did. 

Now he woke up, and it did. People mattered. Fabio mattered to him a lot. 

~~_ Cause if you don't believe, then you know, then you know it can never do you harm. _ ~~

Fabio had been his first real friend in Italy, and his first real date after what seemed a lifetime of awful yet brief encounters that ended up in bad blowjobs after cheap meals. His first proper kiss that wasn’t backed by clouds of smoke or rains of alcohol. The very first moment where he’d thought,  _ That’s what sex’s supposed to feel like.  _

He didn’t love him the way he loved Damen, and one could never replace the other. But If Laurent couldn’t keep Fabio as a lover, then he’d at least treasure his friendship. 

That if he could forgive him. 

And Damen, well, Laurent didn’t need to explain why Damen was important and necessary to his existence. He didn’t need to go over the small letters of a deal signed so many years ago. 

In the end, the sight of ashes only meant fire. 

And if there was something Laurent had always dreamed about, was lighting up a flame to the world. 

~~_ Cause if you don't believe, it can’t hurt you. _ ~~

Except now he only felt as though he had set himself on fire and he was burning away slowly. Skin to rot and bones to dust. 

“Laurent?” 

_ Give me a minute. _

_ I need a minute.  _

Looking up from the ice melting in what was left of his drink, Laurent met Damen’s worried eyes. He bore such an expression of genuine concern, Laurent found it tender. He smiled, “Yeah?”

_ Let me put on my mask.  _

_ I need to put on my mask.  _

“Where were you?”

He shook his head a little, “I was getting in character.”

Damen didn’t relax. If anything, he looked more concerned, “You’ve been…” he hesitated, then, “Are you okay?”

“Cross my heart and hope to die.”

“You shouldn’t say that,” playfully, this time, “Liar.”

Laurent’s lips twitched, he suppressed the laugh, “Excuse me, aren’t we in the middle of a game right now?” 

“We’re always in the middle of a game, my darling.”

Laurent groaned, took the glass back to his lips, “Don’t call me that, it makes me think of Nicaise.”

Damen did laugh, openly and freely as per usual. They were having a drink in an outdoor bar near the beach. It was too hot to sit inside and they’d been lucky to get a table in the shade, where they could almost taste the saltiness of the sea breeze.

He ordered another aperol spritz for himself and a second beer for Damen, then settled back comfortably in the chair next to him. He was trying to ease his mind, unclench his brain, but it was proving very hard even with the alcohol.

Sensing his uneasiness, Damen had proposed a game to distract him. It was one they had started to play a few nights ago; pretending to be someone else when they were out and about. The first night, he’d been a Russian ballerina set to dance in the ballet in Firenze and Damen had been his Brazilian bodyguard. 

Yesterday, they’d been two runaways; searched by the FBI and the interpol after meddling in state secrets relating to drugs. 

Tonight, they hadn’t yet decided. 

“So?” Damen asked, taking a swig of his beer.

Laurent watched the people walk by in front of them. A pair of children were chasing each other with water pistols, their mother trailing behind while carrying a baby girl no older than a few months. 

_ We’re having an affair, _ he thought,  _ We’re married to other people. We shouldn’t be here, but we don’t care about the risks. Your wife is at home with the kids and my husband is—away.  _

He couldn’t stomach the thought. Even though he reminded himself it was just a game, it felt wrong. It felt so wrong. 

He swallowed against the knot in his throat and moved the straw in his glass, stirring the melting ice, “I’m a gigolo,” he opted to say instead, “You’re a customer.”

“An expensive gigolo that is, if I’m paying for your drinks.” 

“You wanted only the best.”

“And that’s you?”

“Yes,” Laurent said, “I’m perfect.”

The echo of the words were wrong. As he said them, they came back in a different voice. A fonder tone, a slightly lower pitch. They were not his.

_ “You're my little brother. You're perfect.” _

_ Give me a minute. _

_ I need a minute. _

_ Just one.  _

Damen reached for his hand. It was cold from holding his drink. “Modest much?”

Laurent’s attention drifted back to him, and then their joint hands. For a minute, he wanted to snatch it away. ~~_T_ _hat’s the thing about illicit affairs._~~ He shrugged, “You’re disgustingly rich, I doubt two aperol spritz would make much of a difference.”

“Disgustingly rich, huh?”

The lyrics came to him because they always did. He sang softly, while grinning at the words, moving his shoulders along to the rhythm in his head,“ _ You’re a rich girl, and you’ve gone too far, cause you know it don’t matter anyway.”  _ He bobbed his head, once, twice, “ _ You can rely on the old man’s money _ .” 

It had the desired effect: Damen smiled, moving along with his rhythm as well, “You sing well.”

“Aren’t you charming,” said Laurent.

“And I think that last drink went to your head too fast.” 

Laurent shrugged, brushing his hair back with a hand, “It’s just another one of my skills.”

“Gigolo, singer,” Damen said amused, ticking them off with his fingers, “Are you going to tell me you’re a secret agent too?”

A wink, “I’m full of surprises.” 

“You've been difficult to pin down.” Damen said then, lowering his voice as if they were sharing secrets, “You must be very busy.”

“Summer's good business,” he said easily, the story building up in his head.  _ In another universe, in another realm.  _ A complicit smile,  _ “ _ A lot of people come looking for the hidden jewel of the city you know.”

Damen smiled slowly, caressing Laurent’s thumb up and down. A careful, affectionate motion. And something else. “Well, then I hope I can make your time with me worthwhile.”

Damen was...distracting, to say the least. 

He licked his lips before answering, “Shouldn't that be my line? You're the one paying, after all.”

“I want to become your best customer. Maybe if I’m good you’ll give me a discount next time.”

Laurent made a sound similar to a laugh before moving to sit on Damen’s lap. This was all part of the game. He put a hand to Damen’s chest, eyes slowly coming to find Damen’s as he slid his fingers inside his shirt, feeling the skin there, rubbing a single spot tenderly. 

This was all part of the game. 

Damen drew in a breath, then put his own hand over Laurent’s. He said, barely even a sound, “Laurent.”

Laurent’s eyes moved to Damen’s lips and his head moved an inch closer. In the same low, impossible, forbidden tone, Laurent whispered, “Yes?” 

This was all part of the game. 

“Let’s go home,” Damen said, “Please.”

Laurent smiled, remembering the way he’d sworn to get back at Damen for their little scene at the church. On Damen’s open lips, he blew the words away. They were so close and so immersed that he could have never said the words, but Damen would have gotten them anyway. “Eager much?” And then, “You smell good.” 

In a tight, constrained voice, Damen breathed out, “Now you're the one taking my lines.” 

“It’s only fair.”

He pulled away when he saw Damen grin, dropping his head. His eyelashes were long, Laurent noticed. Beautifully dark and long. 

Innocently, he said, wrapping his arms around Damen’s neck, “Leave? So soon? But I'm having fun.”

Damen’s arms moved to set around his torso, “We can have even more fun back home.”

“You are talking big game there, you can't disappoint now.”

Like the sun, “I just happen to be very good at games.”

“I know,” and he shifted just so, “I've had a little taste before.”

Damen took a breath, but held his gaze, “Then? Should we bet on it?”

Just as he was about to reply, the waiter, scratching his throat uncomfortably, came back with their drinks, and thus they separated. They had forgotten they weren’t alone, as they often did. 

“Took them long enough,” Laurent said, sitting back on his chair and taking the straw to his mouth. 

He took a few sips, but Damen remained strangely unresponsive. Turning his head, Laurent saw that Damen was sitting very still, carefully unmoving. “Damen?” he asked, “What is it?”

Damen’s adam’s apple bobbed, “I—”

Slowly, Laurent’s eyes darted downwards to the most sensitive part of Damen’s body. He suppressed a laugh, “Want me to lend you a hand?”

Damen blushed, the colour blooming in his dark cheeks. Crossing his legs, he managed, “I just need a minute.”

“Think of Mrs Hadleigh,” Laurent suggested, the image of their former school’s vice principal coming to mind, “In a bikini.”

“Oh God. I didn't need that.”

Damen probably didn’t. And Laurent was probably being very mean, poking him and watching the colour deepen until Damen’s face was all red. But he couldn’t help himself when Damen’s shyness and blushing was so endearing. 

If he was honest, Laurent’s heart was still hammering in his chest from the intensity of their latest performance. But that was part of the game.

This was all part of the game. 

After a few minutes of quiet laughter and Damen avoiding his eyes all whatsoever, he visibly relaxed and slumped back against his chair. He took a few gulps of his still cold beer and said, “You’re a real menace, Laurent de Vere.”

Laurent grinned, the straw between his teeth, “He who seeks finds.” 

“Yes,” Damen smiled, “And I’ve been waiting for you for a while.”

It was another line that slashed his heart. Another quote for his book.  ~~ It was another lie.  ~~ His fingers were growing numb from the cold, and droplets of water were sliding down his wrists. He sipped too fast and relished on the pain of the freezing force going to his head. 

~~ yousaidforeverandialmostboughtit ~~

_ How long? _

_ How long have you waited? _

_ How much longer would you have waited? _

_ Make me believe that this was all fated.  _

_ Make me believe that this is how it had to be. _

_ That it wasn’t me. That I didn’t fuck this up.  _

“Damen,” he started. 

But he never got to finish that phrase or the thought. Because the next thing he knew, his name was being called and he froze. 

Then, Laurent knew. This wasn’t part of the game. 

“Lori?” Italian accent, a tenor.

Whistle past a graveyard, Laurent, admit you’re not innocent. 

***

It felt like the end.

Of what? Well he wasn’t sure. Not  _ everything _ . Everything was too broad a word to describe the hell he set loose. 

But it was definitely the end of something precious, equally fragile. A secret so close to his heart it had become an artery. 

The moment Laurent saw Fabio, he felt it burst. He felt the blood get everywhere except the place it most needed to. A proper end to his little life. 

In Twelfth Night, Shakespeare said, “ _ Journeys end in lovers meeting. _ ” And it only made sense that his journey with Fabio ended exactly the way it started; him catching his eyes in a bar in Italy. Approaching him with a bright smile and kind eyes. 

Not a clue of who Laurent really was. 

_ But you knew this, _ the other Laurent inside him said,  _ You wanted him to see you. You wanted to give him a reason to leave.  _

_ You knew this. You did this.  _

_ Now deal with it.  _

Fabio said his name with a mix of surprise and contentment. He had tan, and unlike Laurent, who only burnt red in the sun, his skin wore it like an added glow. He wore a simple, loose long sleeve and jean shorts, and it struck Laurent, suddenly, how attractive he was — and the fact that he couldn’t help but notice it. 

His body went completely still and his stomach started to bubble as he watched Fabio round their table to come greet him, completely ignoring the man sitting by his left side. He kissed his cheeks, then pecked his lips. He smelled like the sea and tasted oddly sweet, like peach. 

Laurent couldn’t do a thing. 

Next to him, Damen shifted. Laurent knew in the way he sat straight and pulled his lips onto a business-like smile that he was annoyed. But he’d gotten good at pretending, just like Laurent was by nature.

It was yet but another little charade they’d keep for too long and not enough for it to be meaningless. Another one of those games that would end in fist fights in parking lots and teardrops on snow. 

“And who’s this?” He heard Damen say.

Fabio turned to him, offered his hand and that ever so dazzling smile of his, “Oh I’m Fabio. I’m Lori’s—”

“Fabio,” Laurent interrupted, wondering if he’d be sick, and whether he should aim at his own shoes. Would he be excused if he brought up his lunch? “You’re back early.”

“Mm?” Fabio’s gaze shifted back to him, “Ah yes, Greece got boring without you, amore.” He caressed his cheek softly with a thumb as he said it, and Laurent closed his eyes briefly.

_ Amore _ . 

Yes, he was going to puke.

Damen cleared his throat, and his heart gave a dangerous pull, “Right. I’m sorry. Fabio, this is Damen,” Laurent gestured between them, “He’s…we grew up together.” 

To that, Fabio looked at Damen as if he was one of his own childhood heroes, “No way. You met my Lori when he was a beautiful baby?”

“Well,” Damen said coyly, “He’s still one of those things.”

And Fabio laughed, ~~ and Laurent wanted to die ~~ , and Damen laughed with him, however giving him Laurent a small, subtle frown. 

Endings, Laurent had thought, were supposed to be fast. They were supposed to be rushed and unexpected preceded by one last shuddering breath. Blink and there’s your life, blink once more and it’s gone. So the fact that he had to sit through a period-drama long scene where Fabio took a place right next to him and whispered sweet nothings in his ear while Damen all but watched was a painful reminder of how awfully wrong Laurent was when it came to the oddities of life. 

And he’d frozen like a statue. Medusa herself couldn’t have done a better job at turning him into stone. All he could do was spare glances between the two men at the table and twirl the melting ice of his forgotten drink, cringing inwardly at the fact that he could tell Damen knew everything and Fabio didn’t. 

It only made it worse, really. At some point between minute two and torturous eternity, Laurent had wished with all his might that Damen would cause a scene or said something that made Fabio realize what was going on. It would have been much, much easier for him if they had caused a fight and insulted him for being a liar and a player. 

But none of that had happened. Fabio was finishing his first rum and coke while talking about Damen’s job, who seemed actually interested in the other’s questions and replied smartly while sending ice cold looks Laurent’s way. 

Should anyone guess, they were just three friends having a nice conversation during their aperitivo. 

_ Except both of them have sucked your— _

“So are you one of Laurent’s clients?”

_ Bastard _ . 

Laurent’s eyes went up, meeting Damen’s with a cold gaze of his own. They only looked at each other for a second. But infinities could be held in seconds. Time was never linear nor constructed. 

Time was something they played with. Time, mystical time. Stitching them closer, then ripping them open.

Fabio didn’t catch the reference nor the insult that came with it. He shook his head lightly, politely, “Oh no, I'm not a writer. I'm a curator at the museum.” 

Damen gave him another forced, fake smile, and there was satisfaction in his posture. He’d always liked having power, that much Laurent knew. He’d always been meant to lead, to rule. But Laurent had never been on the end of his attacks, and suddenly all he wanted was to hit him back with something just as shameful.

But he couldn’t. And he felt sorry that his former Italian lover would look back onto this and see the fool that they were making him. 

Then, in the interim of Fabio ordering his second drink, he looped his arm around Laurent’s neck and pulled him close affectionately. A few weeks ago, Laurent would have smiled and kissed him just as sweetly. Now, his touch made him itch.

He was itching all over, but couldn’t move. He could barely breathe and he couldn’t think and each look he received from any of the two sent waves of nausea that he was sure would start making him look green sooner or later. 

“How did you two meet?” Damen asked, and Laurent closed his eyes, cursing him silently. 

There was a moment where his ears rang. In spite of it all, he heard Fabio’s words perfectly. Each of them made a new hole in his heart. “Well,” Fabio smiled, remembering. “I saw him in a bar, looking just as beautiful as he does tonight and I couldn't help myself from inviting him for a drink. I've been teaching him a little Italian,” then, a light chuckle, “Among other things.”

“That’s funny,” said Damen, and the world went still, “Laurent never mentioned it.”

_ Or you. _

He didn’t say it, but the words hung between them like a sentence. And Laurent knew it was unfair to want to complain, say something to his own defense, but still it was taking everything in him not to tell Damen he was wrong. 

Wrong? 

For someone who had wanted something so badly he thought he would become sick of his own yearning, he clearly had a knick knack for ruining his own happiness. 

And what could he do now? No amount of damage control could help him. He didn’t have time to think it through. Damen was not giving him any time. He was closing himself up and Laurent couldn’t reach him. 

It wasn’t as simple as wanting Damen to understand. It wasn’t as simple as protecting Fabio’s feelings. It wasn’t as simple as being sorry.

Besides him, Fabio stiffened. He turned his beautiful face towards him, a question drawn on his features that then turned to worry. “Lori — Are you okay?”

_ I don’t want to lose you.  _

To his beautiful hazel eyes, Laurent wanted to say,  _ I don’t want to say goodbye to you. _

Laurent gripped the glass so tightly his knuckles went white. He took a breath, tried to make it past the disgust rising from the pits of his stomach. “I’m fine,” he tried, “Just a bit...dizzy. I probably drank too fast.”

Fabio touched his face softly with both hands, then moved pressed his right one onto his forehead, clearly checking for a fever. It was such a noble gesture, one more that he didn’t deserve, that Laurent thought he would break. 

_ You’re already broken.  _

_ You’re already cracked.  _

“Tesoro, non hai la febbre però,” Fabio whispered. He was frowning. It was so rare for him, Laurent wanted to tell him to stop. Ease the space between his eyebrows the way Damen did with him all the time. “Vuoi andare a casa?”

The sound of glass being slammed against the table startled them, and both turned to look at Damen, already on his feet. He finished the rest of his drink in one go and was pulling out his wallet. With a sour smile, he said, "I should get going, have work in the morning."

And then, “Nice to meet you Fabio,” Damen pulled a couple bills then rolled them out and left them on the table. His eyes never left Laurent’s when he said, “For your time.”

_ “Well, then I hope I can make your time with me worthwhile.” _

Laurent set his jaw. He thought of grabbing the money and throwing it at the sight of Damen’s back. He thought to scream, to follow him, making look at him and say the words to his face. He thought of himself simply laughing and taking the money.  ~~_ Don’t take the money. All good love stories end when one takes the money. _ ~~ He thought of himself becoming a real whore this time. 

A gigolo. He would say,  _ darling let me give you something better. _

_ Darling, let me be your something better.  _

_ Let me be your impossible.  _

In the end, Laurent didn’t do any of those things. He wasn’t that person yet, although it did water the seeds. It sprouted a root. 

He didn’t have the right to be angry, much less hurt for having his own game used against him. Not after he had played master and puppeteers. But as he watched Damen shove his hands in his pockets and disappear among the tourists, all he felt was a rage so hot it didn’t burn at first. A flame so powerful it would turn him to nothing before he could get to feel any of the pain.

So, he did the only thing he could do. He took out his wallet and added another tenner on top of Damen’s money, enough to pay for all of their drinks and leave the waiter a very generous tip. 

He looked at Fabio, finally, and touched his soft face. He leaned onto the touch reflectively, and Laurent wished he could spare him some of the pain.

He wished that Fabio would see him for who he was, and walk away from his life. 

If Laurent could erase Fabio’s memories, he would erase himself from every frame and the entirety of their story. Live with the pain of being the only one who remembered as a form of repent. 

“Let’s go home, Faby.” 

That was the thing about Laurent and Fabio. What they felt for each other transcended the seasons. It bypassed language. It stood against tempests; it was written in letters. 

It was pure and simple. And that is why it ended. 

_ I want you to be happy,  _ Laurent thought _ , and your very flesh shall be a great poem. _

***

Laurent never found the words.

If they existed, and he was sure they did, he just lacked them. The feeling he would describe as being on a cloud or suddenly floating outside of his body. Nothing was real. And what existed from him was his brain and the two windows into wherever he was, but he wasn’t  _ there _ . And what  _ was _ even  _ there _ ? 

It started whenever he got anxious. Sometimes he didn’t mind it; after Auguste’s death he would find himself spacing out for hours and by the time he recovered, a full day would have been wasted. But it was all the same when all he wished for was death. 

Then, as the grief became more manageable, those little episodes of sudden irreality became threatening and annoying, and most preceded his panic attacks, so he learnt to dread them. 

His heart rate would pick up, and then he’d be sweating. It always started on his neck and the top of his forehead. His hands would tremble and he would dig his nails into his palms as a way of grounding himself to reality. He always tried to look around for an anchor. A sound, a particular smell. Something that would remind me he was alive and he wasn’t in danger. 

It was just his head being a bit overheated. His heart a little bit broken. 

Laurent let Fabio take him home, and he was floating in one of those clouds, where he didn’t feel anything and nothing was able to reach him. 

For a moment he was worried the ride back in the Vespa would make him sick, but surprisingly the cool breeze actually helped. 

It was Fabio who drove, and so Laurent spent the whole time with his eyes closed and pressed his face against his back, treasuring each second, trying to get used to the idea that he might really never see him again after it was over. 

Very deliberately, Laurent allowed himself to open the cracks of his broken teapot of a heart, letting in air, and everything else with it. He felt the way his cheek was warm against Fabio’s back, and how the muscles of his stomach felt under Laurent’s grip. He tried to block out the sounds of the rest of the world and focus on Fabio’s steady heart. It didn’t work, but he’d listened to it so many times, he knew the rhythm of those beats as if they were his own. 

It was such a scene, he thought, as the tears welled in his eyes. To be in the back of a Vespa with a person he loved, driving across the city, away from the shambles of his failed attempt at damage-control. Knowing that he was about to make it all worse by admitting to a truth he had ignored until it was the size of a planet. 

It was like that one time he’d started to skip classes for a reason he couldn’t remember. It all seemed so silly now; reasonings from another life. And the way he’d lied to Auguste about it, until the school managed to reach his mom and then he had to confess everything.

If he thought of it now, Laurent was sure all he had wanted was attention. A reason for them to get home early from work and school. 

Not the best of his plans, but it’d worked. 

What had he gotten out of this one, though? Nothing. By the looks of it, Damen hated him. And he hated to think he’d receive the same disappointed and distasteful looks from Fabio, but the fact that he’d never seen him properly angry or sad or dissatisfied only meant he had no clues as to how he would react, and it was petrifying. 

“Lori?” Fabio said. They had stopped moving.

All of sudden, Laurent realized they were at the parking lot of his apartment complex. Fabio wasn’t moving, waiting for him to unhook his arms from around his chest. 

“Sorry,” Laurent blinked, “I—”

Fondly, Fabio touched his hands. They were a bit sweaty, but Laurent didn’t mind. “Did you fall asleep?”

He sighed, “Something like that.”

His limbs were stiff and he stretched them a little as he descended from the bike. His head was hot and humid from the helmet and all he wanted was a cold shower. 

Fabio didn’t say anything else as they went inside, and neither did he. He held Fabio’s hand to lead him upstairs as he had done that first night, except now they weren’t kissing in every corner, stumbling in the dark because they couldn’t find the hall switch to turn the lights on, kicking a neighbour’s plant in the process and blaming it on someone else’s cat. 

They weren’t giggling and Fabio wasn’t pulling him to whisper dirty things in Italian that made Laurent want to take him right then and there. 

This felt almost ceremonial; a last walk together. The last few steps before they reached Laurent’s apartment and everything came crumbling down into pieces. 

A scattered puzzle. A broken picture frame. An empty promise on a dark night before the crash and the bang and the smoke. 

When Laurent opened the door to his apartment, he saw them; those Fabio and Laurent. He saw them right by the entrance, almost tripping over shoes as Fabio pressed him gently against the wall. He heard his own sounds of pleasure as their lips collided desperately, hands guiding hands to lower, intimate spots. 

He saw Fabio trying to undress him in the hallway, and himself trying to hurry the whole thing up in between words of desire. 

_ “Ho voglia di te.”  _

In the span of a second, he entered a million other memories that started similar to this one. There was Fabio carrying him to bed, laughing, and the little yelp that Laurent gave each time Fabio picked him up like a doll. There was himself nested against Fabio’s chest as they chatted of things superfluous. There were their mornings together singing made-up lyrics as Fabio played the guitar and the way sometimes he would count how many kisses it took to wake Fabio up on a lazy Sunday morning. 

There were the halls of the museum where Fabio worked and how in awe Laurent had been at the power of another person’s mind. 

There was him discovering rather amusedly that Fabio was ticklish on his ribs and the little sounds proper of his native tongue that he made prior to beginning, “No, no, no — Lori, ti prego,  _ don’t _ .” 

When he closed his eyes, the ghosts disappeared. But Laurent knew he’d carry the memories if not for a long time then an eternity. 

“Lori?” Fabio asked beside him. He heard the door close behind them, and it took all in him not to break down into a crying mess as he finally accepted everything this loss entitled. 

He loved Fabio. He did. It was unfair and selfish and he didn’t deserve such a good man. He loved him in a different way than Damen; a kinder, almost innocent way. 

Perhaps, had he not been blinded by the sights of his first true love, he would have allowed himself to be happy with Fabio, and this story would have had a better ending. 

But that wasn’t what happened. 

“Amore, che succede?”

_ “Be a gentleman,”  _ Auguste said in his head,  _ “When you tell him.” _

At that, Laurent let out a sound of frustration mixed with irony, and then he felt Fabio’s hands on his shoulders, easing the tension in his muscles. “Come on,” he heard him say, then let himself be led to the couch. 

“Do you want to see what I brought you from Greece?” Fabio asked, kissing his head. 

Laurent screamed inwardly. He screamed and screamed and screamed until he couldn’t hear anything apart from his own raw screaming. 

He gave a little nod, then forced up a smile, “Show me.”

Fabio complied, sitting next to him and taking out the items from the duffle bag he’d been carrying since they met at the bar. Only one thing was wrapped neatly in newspaper. 

The first thing was a clear jar the size of his palm full of blue sea glass. “They reminded me of your eyes.”

The second thing, wrapped in paper, was a small ceramic pitcher. “Handmade. I got it in a shop close to the Parthenon ruins.”

The third and last one was a journal, bound in soft, brown leather. 

Laurent didn’t notice the moment when the tears had started to flow. He took all the items in his hands and examined them one by one. They made him happy and it felt like he was being stabbed. 

_ Oh God.  _ What had he done?

“Fabio,” he managed, cringing at how his voice broke, “I need to tell you something.”

Fabio’s face fell. His knuckles brushed his cheek and it burned, “What is it, love?”

“I'm sorry,” Laurent said, taking off his glasses and closing his eyes for a second, letting more tears fall, “I've been lying to you. I fucked up.”

“Lori, amore, you're not making any sense.”

“The guy from today?” Laurent said, his bottom lip quivering. He bit it hard, hoping to draw blood. “Damen,” he said, when Fabio nodded, “He means a lot to me, more than I've let you know.”

Fabio stopped. He pulled his hand back, let it rest on his own lap. With a sad smile, he said, “...You're breaking up with me.”

“I di-didn’t plan it,” he stuttered out, hating at the way his chest was heaving. “He came here and I,” he stopped, “We were just…” and he couldn’t, “but I think maybe I’m in love with him.”

It wasn’t fair. But Laurent had always loved Damen. He would never stop loving Damen. And just as he had always wanted to be loved properly by the subject of his utmost care and affection, he knew Fabio deserved the same thing.

He was in a cloud, and his head was filled with cotton. He wanted to let himself be taken away. He wanted to let the hours pass him by without a thought. But he couldn’t, not now. 

So he was saying the words.

“I’m so sorry,”  _ Forgive me.  _ “I never wanted to hurt you.”  _ Forgive me. _ “Please believe me. I never  _ ever _ wanted to hurt you.”

_ Forgive me.  _

Gently, Fabio shushed his nonsense babbling. He brushed a strand of hair behind his ear. He said, “It's okay, amore. Breathe. Come on, breathe.”

“Don't hate me, please.”

The look he received wasn’t pitiful, rather wise and understanding. Fabio displayed sadness the same way he displayed kindness; by offering comfort despite himself. Selflessness came to him as naturally as lying came to Laurent. 

It reminded him, a little, of Auguste.

“I don't hate you,” Fabio said, wiping away the tears that continued to fall from his eyes, “I could never, Lori.”

Laurent swallowed, “You should,” and then, gravely, “I would.”

“You're too harsh on yourself.”

He took a shuddering breath, cleaned his nose with the back of his hand, “You’ve always been kind to me.”  _ Even when I don't deserve it. _

Simply, “You deserve kindness, Laurent.”

Shaking his head, “Why aren't you angry?” He said so a bit desperately, before his blue eyes met hazel, and the softness in them made his agitated heart quiet in the hue of their goodbye. 

Fabio took his hand and his eyes moved downwards, staring at them for a minute, “Would it make it any easier for either of us if I was angry?” 

_ Yes _ . 

When Laurent said nothing, he continued, “I'm not...happy about this. But I can see you're hurting. And I appreciate the truth.”

Against the lump in his throat, Laurent tried, closing his eyes, “Fabio.”

Silence. 

“How long has this been going on?”

And shame, shame didn’t swallow one whole. It took bite after bite, bleeding one out slowly. It didn’t stop at one’s pleads. It didn’t stop until one surrendered to it. 

“A couple weeks,” Laurent whispered. 

After an awful minute, Fabio said, “Right.” And then, in the same quiet voice, “It makes sense now, why he was so upset.”

Laurent watched the way everything clicked in Fabio’s face and felt like he would throw up an organ. But even if he did, even if he sacrificed one lung to Fabio’s misery as a token for his betrayal, it wouldn’t fix the damage. 

Things like this could never be repaired. Not in the way one would want to. 

Time machines didn’t exist. Blue butterflies didn’t grant jump backs. This was his reality, and pain was as much as an anchor as anything else he’d ever tried. 

Much to his despair. 

Laurent tried, again, unable to hold the tears or the shaking in his voice, “Fabio.” 

Fabio didn’t look up when he asked, “Did you sleep with him?”

“No.”

_ I didn’t do that to you. _

~~_ Oh, but you would have. You know you would have.  _ ~~

“How long?” he cleared his throat, “How long have you been in love with him?”

“I think I've loved him my whole life.”

Fabio nodded, swallowed. Laurent gripped his hands tightly, “I just want you to know that I wouldn't jeopardize what we have for something meaningless.”

Immediately, he regretted it. 

He saw the way Fabio frowned and he drew back, almost a flinch. He stood up, took a breath, combed his hair back and looked anywhere but at him. 

“You never mentioned him,” he said, “Someone so important to you.”

“I thought,”  _ that I’d never see him again. That he was dead. That he’d never forgive me, just as you never will.  _ “That I had lost him, I didn't know it was possible to have him back.”

“I see.”

Nothing. Silence. 

“Please say something.”

_ Anything. I’ll take anything.  _

“What about him?”

“Mm?”

“Does he love you back? Is it the same for him as it is for you?”

Laurent blinked, more tears fell down. For a second, he thought they’d never stop. He smiled, anyway. He smiled because he had ruined everything. 

What did that opera say anyway? 

_ Laugh at the grief that poisons your heart.  _

Sincerely, “After tonight probably not.”

Shaking his head a little, Fabio came to look at him again, “If he loves you, he's not gonna stop after this misunderstanding.”

“This is a little more than a misunderstanding, Fabio.”

“He won't get over you easily.”

“You don’t need to do this. You can say I’m an asshole.” 

And then Fabio’s lips turned into a small smile, and he let out a sweet little laugh. “Laurent, I only want you to be happy.” And then, serious if not a bit wary, “Does he make you happy?”

“He does,” he replied softly. “We have these games, he and I. They’re a bit silly. Childish. But apart from me, he’s the only other person in the world who knows how to play.” 

And that was enough. 

After a second or two of uncertainty, Fabio closed the space between them once more, sitting next to Laurent on the couch and pulling him into a hug. Laurent hugged him back just as hard, praying that it lingered. 

“I won’t say the word,” Laurent whispered in the safety of Fabio’s embarace, “So please don’t say it.

“I won’t,” Fabio whispered back, and it sounded like a promise. Pulling away, he opted for a different one. A better word. A better version of what this outcome was supposed to be. 

“Friends?” 

_ Goodbye _ . 

Laurent smiled a little, extended his hand, “Friends.” 

_ Farewell.  _

But Fabio just hugged him again. Laurent would learn to miss Fabio like one would miss the warmth of the summer and the crisp wind of winter. He would miss the way the world felt while being in his arms. So much more vividly, so much more beautiful than it really was. 

~~ He would learn to miss it and cry tears of blood over the memories of what he’d so stupidly let go.  ~~

“Did you like your presents?”

“I loved them.”

“You should write.”

“And what would I write about?”

“How much fun we had together.” 

*** 

Fabio left. The more he told himself he wasn’t hurt, the more aware he grew of the pain.

Perhaps it would make him very silly and naïve to admit he was falling for the blond sweetheart he’d called his for the past months. But then again, that was the thing about guys like sweet drinks; the aftertaste was usually bitter.

He knew Laurent was sorry. He didn’t question that. 

He remembered at the beginning thinking that maybe it wouldn’t work out. They didn’t speak the same language and their interactions were shortly estranged before they could find a comfortable dynamic that took them farther than a basic conversation. At first, he had mistakenly taken Laurent for an exchange student, looking for the kind of shameless lust one only finds in foreign lands. 

Turns out, he had been wrong.

Laurent had not been looking for anything at all, and he himself was just out for a good time. 

So how come it all ended like this? 

He had thought it was all much more intense, much more beautiful, much stronger than  _ this _ . It seemed he’d been wrong about that too. 

The worst part was that he couldn’t blame Laurent for his decision. In the end, he had found in Damen something that Fabio had never even experienced himself. The way Laurent had cried when he told him about his feelings; as if he would stand between Damen and whatever danger could come his way. As if he would hold his hand and walk to the end of the world, as long as they could be together. 

Fabio hadn’t found that. Not even with…

Laurent. 

And Fabio was a simple man. He didn’t care about what people thought or said behind his back. He knew he was rather simple. He liked to laugh, he was positive, he loved art. That was about it. There was no space for hatred in a heart like his. 

All he wanted for Laurent was to be happy; happier than he’d been with him, the happiest a person could ever get to be. If Damen could grant his sweet Laurent unwearving joy, then who was he to get upset over it? 

Why, why did he feel as though he’d just lost something too valuable? As though he’d been tricked, almost played with? 

Would it have been the same, he wondered, had he stayed in Italy those two weeks instead of going to Greece? 

Knowing now, it wouldn’t make a difference. But just as Laurent deserved his happiness, he himself deserved to let him go. 

He owed it to himself to let Laurent go, along with what had happened, and his own feelings about it. He wasn’t the type to victimize himself. And he didn’t deserve the struggle and anguish that came with regrets and scorn or any hatred. 

It would only taint the beautiful moments they had together. In spite of it all, he wanted to treasure those. 

What kind of person would he be if he stopped caring about sweet Lori? He wasn't so vain. He actually cared about Laurent, even if it didn't work out between them. They were friends, once, and throughout it all.

They could learn to be friends now. 

Even if taking step after step sent spikes up to his chest and he questioned his own beliefs. He walked slowly, took the stairs more careful than usual, the keys to his Vespa clenched inside his fist. 

_ I deserve to let you go.  _

When a story ended, the only thing that remained were the goosebumps. Flashbacks and echoes of smiles and first-times. 

And as Fabio made it outside, the only thing in his mind was that night; with Laurent’s legs around him, his voice caught in breaths and Fabio slid over him. He’d called him beautiful. Teasingly,  _ a capolavoro _ . 

“What should I call you?” Laurent had asked in a whisper, his arms around Fabio’s neck.

“Cosa?”

“You called me Lori. What should I call you?”

He’d smiled, kissed Laurent’s neck as his head dropped back, “Whatever your heart desires.”

Laurent had digged his nails onto his bare back, calling his name over and over in between pants, until he’d gotten lost on the syllables. “Fabi—” and then again, “Fabi—” until he’d given up, “I’ll just call you Faby, then.”

And when Fabio had looked over at him again, he had a sly smile on his face. 

“Mi piace,” he’d responded, sincerely. 

“Tu mi piaci,” Laurent said. 

Now, as Fabio drove away from Laurent’s place and towards his own, he thought of the words. He wondered if he should have said them. 

_ Ti voglio bene. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeeeeello you guys. 
> 
> First of all, I'm so sorry for not having posted last week. As I said, I was having concerning health issues and I didn't have the energy to finish this monster of a chapter. I'm glad to say I'm feeling better now, and all of your lovely comments and questions on tumblr had a lot to do with that! They definitely helped cheer me up and for that I'm so, so thankful<3 
> 
> So yes, we've arrived to this point. I know a lot of you were asking about Fabio and fearing this moment. It's not a surprise but I have to say even I was brokenhearted while writing it. Baby boy baby Fabio deserves all the good things :sad-emoji:
> 
> As always a big thank you to my lovely beta readers Lyss and Ellen, and a standing ovation to demon-friend for putting up with me and all of my issues AND Damen and Laurent's issues. They all have helped Linger become the special thing it is (at least special to me). I owe them a lot. 
> 
> "But there is no silence without a cry of grief, no forgiveness without bloodshed and no acceptance without a passage through acute loss." quote by Haruki Murakami. 
> 
> "And your very flesh shall be a great poem." quote by Walt Whitman.
> 
> "Laugh at the grief that poisons your heart." lyric taken from "Vesti la giubba" a tenor aria written by Ruggero Leoncavallo for the opera "Pagliacci."
> 
> "Cause if you don't believe / then you know, then you know it can never do you harm / If you don't believe / it can’t hurt you." lyrics taken from [Graveyard Whistling](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DCCAEcuOk_g) by Nothing But Thieves.
> 
> "You're a rich girl, and you've gone too far / Cause you know it don't matter anyway / You can rely on the old man's money." lyrics taken from [Rich Girl](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AmHE65RAkSY) by Hall & Oates.
> 
> I think that's (probably, hopefully) all for now! I hope you liked this, in spite of the turmoil. See you next week!
> 
> P.S. Translations from Italian, in order of appearance:
> 
> \+ Amore. = Love.  
> \+ Tesoro, non hai la febbre però. = Honey, you don't have a fever though.  
> \+ Vuoi andare a casa? = Do you want to go home?  
> \+ Ho voglia di te. = I want you.  
> \+ Ti prego. = I beg you / Please.  
> \+ Amore, che succede? = Love, what's wrong?  
> \+ Cosa? = What?  
> \+ Mi piace. = I like it.  
> \+ Tu mi piaci. = I like you.  
> \+ Ti voglio bene. = I love you.


	17. Act II: Chapter 15

_“Hey.”_

Deleted.

_“I miss you.”_

Deleted.

_“Come over?”_

Deleted.

_“Hey.”_

Deleted.

_“Do you want to hang out this weekend? There’s a new exhibition at the modern museum of art & design. We could go together.” _

Deleted.

_“Hey.”_

Deleted.

_“God, I hate you.”_

Deleted.

_“Is she with you?”_

Deleted.

_“Love me better.”_

Deleted.

_“I burnt the lasagna. Can you believe how stupid I am? I burnt the lasagna because I’m here trying to text you and I can’t.”_

Deleted.

_“Say you love me.”_

Deleted.

_“I hate you so much.”_

Deleted.

_“Die.”_

Deleted.

_“But take me with you.”_

Deleted.

_“Hey.”_

Deleted.

_“I miss your body.”_

Deleted.

_“I miss your voice.”_

Deleted. 

_“Do you think of me? A little? At all?”_

Deleted.

_“I love you.”_

Deleted. 

***

Laurent dealt with his break up the same way he did with every little thing that didn’t go his way; he alienated himself from the source, and the world, and his own thoughts. 

All three things were unbearable when he worked himself close to the brink of splitting his own head open, and stopping the awful things that happened there. 

So he sulked.

He sulked for days. 

After The Fatidic Aperitivo of 2012 – and this is how he’d refer to that chaotic scene in his mind for the rest of his life – Laurent called in sick for two days. Hours that he spent trying to keep the heat out during daytime by shutting all the curtains and staying in bed with Nicaise’s fan on. 

It was sort of like gluing the cracks of his teapot-heart. Nothing in, nothing out. 

With every tear and every damnation he gave himself, thinking of the men he’d hurt all in the same time, he was closer to closing himself up again. 

It was a steady yet exhausting job. By the time the third morning rolled in, he got out of bed and went back to work. In all honesty, he wasn’t ready at all. He’d barely slept in days and he’d barely eaten, living off the last dried fruit tins and packets of fresh tortellini he kept in his fridge in case of a too-late-to-order and too-lazy-to-cook emergency. 

So it turned out that work, although hectic and busy enough to keep him from thinking and crying, ended up being too much. It was dreadful. Especially when the lulling sound of the air conditioned had made him dose off during his lunch break and a colleague had asked whether he was okay.

Mortifying.

A lot of the time, he just thought of Fabio. Of that look in his face when he’d caught Laurent’s bullshit mid-air. When he wasn’t thinking of him, he was missing him. Which was exactly the same, only a tad worse, as he remembered the sound of his voice late at night when sometimes he mumbled sweet nonsense before falling asleep. Or how his arms felt around Laurent’s bare skin when they slept naked. 

And then, when it wasn’t about Fabio, it was about Damen. 

It was about how he always ended up hurting the one person he just happened to love most in the world. Every time Laurent remembered the anger in Damen’s eyes across that table, he swore being stabbed would have been less painful. 

Was that how he’d died in his previous life? Stabbed to the heart? It’d make sense although it’d be tremendously ironic. 

Nicaise, who was into Buddhism, told him once that the things we fear most in this life were the things to kill us in our previous one. 

So perhaps he’d died of a broken heart. 

Abandoned, rejected, alone. Completely alone. 

Nicaise also came to his mind sometimes. As did Aimeric. He wondered, while laying in the darkness of his bedroom, if his two best friends saw this one coming. Maybe this was what they were gossiping about behind his back right before Nicaise’s departure.

Another reason why he was barely replying to their messages. Although Nicaise texted at odd hours, being in Canada and all. Still, he wouldn’t let them know this had ever happened. 

A dirty little secret to keep him cozy in his grave. 

Needless to say, Laurent de Vere was far from okay and _definitely_ not on his right mind, for after almost a week of Damen ignoring his calls and texts and anxiety eating him up whole, he decided to just go to his hotel. 

Whatever he would do there? No fucking idea. His plan was just to catch Damen at some point after his usual working hours. Hope that the building had only one entrance and he wouldn’t miss him in between all the people in the lobby. 

He arrived a little early, at half past five. He’d left work and taken the bus, for he was too out of it to drive his Vespa, and he spent the whole ride trying to convince himself to get off and go home instead. 

Forget this ever happened. Forget Damen ever came to Italy and pushed his way into his life again. 

Walk away, Laurent. Walk away, and we will forgive you for this one lie. Walk away now, pretend it wouldn’t kill you if he hated you. 

Pretend the longing wouldn’t kill you more than regret and shame already did.

Laurent didn’t walk away. His determination glued him to the seat of that bus, and then there was no other way but out and forward.

He sat in one of the comfy-looking sofas at the reception and waited. He watched the people come and go, some of them looked at him, but whatever crossed their mind was undecipherable in his current state of perception. He preferred when they pretended he was a ghost or part of the decor. Perhaps if he tried hard enough, he would blend with the lush tree next to him. It was a vibrant green, probably the colour his skin took whenever he saw someone who looked like Damen and he wanted to throw up bile. 

Nothing happened for an hour or so. It wasn’t the first time Laurent tried to catch Damen like this; more like the fourth. Pathetic, huh? 

He’d considered going to his office but he couldn’t bring himself to intercept him that way. It’d only make him angrier, Laurent figured. So he stuck to the hotel, and the little game in his head to keep him from running.

Tonight, he was playing the part of a puppet whose strings had been cut, leaving him stranded and confused on a stage, looking for a listening ear. 

An understanding gaze, a comforting touch. 

Thing is, puppets couldn’t be listened to. Puppets couldn’t talk unless someone gave them a voice. 

And where would he find the words he should say? In which language? In what tone? In what verse of the many poetry books he read? 

Could he actually trust his tongue to say what he meant to and not pick one of the many lies he’d built his life upon? 

That was another thing about puppets, he thought. They were all fake. 

The minutes went by too slowly and too fast at the same time. His heart sank at the thought that maybe Damen was out for dinner or working overtime and he wouldn’t come until much later on, or just not come back at all. 

He tried his phone again, because he was desperate. His vision swarmed as he tried to type in a coherent text. 

_L: Can we please talk?_

The moment he hit send, he bit his bottom lip hard enough it kept his head from spinning, and then he looked up. 

And he saw him. Dear fucking Christ above, he _saw_ him. 

Before he knew it, he was on his feet and crossing the lobby, trying to keep on Damen’s heels. If Laurent wasn’t so tired, it wouldn’t have taken most of his breath and energy to get on Damen’s way. 

He stood right in front of him, and Damen stopped before he could crash onto him. His eyes –surprised, tired– barely glanced over him before he said, “No.” And started to circle and walk past him. 

Laurent drew in a breath, cursed quietly as he followed him, “Damen–”

Damen cut him off, “I don’t need your services, thank you.”

_One._

He would always hate having his own games turned against him. It hurt more that Damen was calling him a whore just because he had first started it. Otherwise, it wouldn’t have made his stomach ache as badly as it did. 

"We’re not playing the game,” Laurent said, “Not now.”

“Since when?” retorted Damen, sarcastically, “That’s all you ever do.”

He gritted his teeth, “Since now.” And, “I'm not the only one playing. It always takes two.”

“Then we go by different rules.” 

To that, Laurent said nothing. He wondered how much longer it would take for Damen to break him, should the conversation go one like this. 

When Damen turned to him, at last, his voice wasn’t void of emotion, rather resentful. His eyes were still tired but also sad. Resigned. “Did your boyfriend leave you? Is that why you’re here now?”

_Two_

_I deserve this._

“I broke up with him.”

Damen didn’t even blink. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t move an inch. “Congratulations.”

~~_Congratulations._ ~~

~~_I hope you’re unhappy._ ~~

Laurent let out a breath, “I know I owe you an explanation.”

“You don’t owe me anything, Laurent.”

“But I do.”

Damen made a face. A distasteful face. An annoyed face. “Why would I want to listen to you? God, you’re so…entitled.”

_Three_

“Damen, please. _Please_. You're leaving soon, and I don't want us to end this with a fight. Can we talk?” And again, “Please?”

_Third time’s the charm._

He wasn’t above begging now, and it made him want to eat a finger. But he’d always known he would kill to be in Damen's atmosphere. He would trade his soul for a smile. 

The owner of the smile in question, regarded him for a second. Then sighed deeply. “Fine.”

***

Things moved on like in a music video, except less theatrical and yet equally dramatic. 

It felt choreographed somehow. The way they'd somehow both agreed to take their little performance to the hotel’s luxurious restaurant instead of staying in the lobby or –Satan Forbid– going for Damen’s room. How he’d followed Damen, preferring to stay behind him than walk by his side, and taking the seat opposite from him only to end up staring at his shaking hands above his lap. 

Laurent was so, so tired. 

It felt wrong and odd to be sitting at a table without ordering anything, so he’d gotten a sparkling water with lemon and Damen an iced tea and they weren’t saying anything but Laurent was sure some kind of music would start playing out of nowhere, and it would be a sad ending to a romantic misadventure on MTV.

Or something.

He was very tired.

They stayed like that for a few minutes, and he could feel Damen’s tension building up to a breaking point, where he said, calmy, “Are you going to talk? I don’t have all night.”

Laurent drank too fast, the bubbles of the sparkling water almost making him hiccup. He looked up at Damen, held his gaze, “Are you going to listen?”

“You have my attention.”

And thus it began. 

He took a breath, then said, quietly, “I'm sorry.”

And,

And,

And?

Damen blinked slowly, his lips were pressed into a thin line, “Is that all you are going to say tonight?”

His heart gave a turn. A side of his head hurt so badly he thought it’d explode. 

_Speak now, Laurent, or you lose him forever._

_Speak now._

~~Speak now or forever hold your peace.~~

He tried again, his voice only a bit louder, “I know I fucked up. I should have told you about Fabio. But I never intended for this to happen.”

“You never intended to lie to my face about having a boyfriend and then him undoing your web of deception by kissing you at the bar? It does sound exaggerated even for you.”

Laurent had to force out the words. He had thought he knew exactly what to say to make this better, but apparently he’d lost all of his words. “I didn’t lie to you.”

Partly true. 

Damen gave a little sarcastic laugh, looked away from him as if in denial of the conversation they were having, “ _Fraude à la loi_ , Laurent. You think me stupid.”

Shaking his head, “You didn't even ask. Did you think I would be alone forever?” And then, awfully, with a hint of his own cruelty, “Waiting for you?”

~~_Waiting for you to get the head out of your ass and finally, finally looking at me and admitting it hadn’t been just me all along, it had been both of us. And you’d been too scared to admit it. But I was right, I’ve always been right. We’re meant to be together._ ~~

“You didn’t ask either.”

“You sucked me off in a church, I guess that was implicit enough.”

Just as cruelly, Damen breathed out, loud enough that people were starting to give them odd looks, “Excuse me for trusting you. My bad.”

Unconsciously, Laurent raised his voice, “I'm telling you now, Damianos.”

And of course, Damen did too, “A little too late. Were you even going to say anything? Mention him? Or you were just going to lie to me, to _us_ until...what? Until I left? That was your plan? To have us both, make fun of the other behind our backs?”

“No, I never wanted to hurt either of you. It wasn’t the twisted thing you’re making it seem.”

 _Why won’t you get it,_ he thought. _Why won’t you, once and for all?_

“Explain it to me then.”

Laurent made a sound of deep frustration, “I’m trying. Will you just fucking listen to me?

“All that i’m hearing is more lies, more excuses. You’re not telling me the truth, you’re just circling around the answers hoping that I will take some half assed version of this that will spare you from being guilty.”

If Damen just _listened_. 

If he just _shut up_ for a damn second. 

If he just _quit_ interrupting him to attack him. 

Could they not be past the fact that he had been a terrible person? 

“I don’t know what I was going to do. I don’t know. I never wanted to do you wrong. I wasn’t expecting you. _You_ , with your tales of constellations and Gods, finding me as if I was a comet crashing back into your life. Do you want the fucking truth? I don’t know. And I am sorry that both of you had to find out this way.”

_If only you learned to listen._

At last, Laurent had managed to shut him up. He took the chance for what it was: an opening. A gambit, just like in chess. 

He was sacrificing pawn after pawn, trying to get an advantage. It would have been easier if he could have just assumed this would play out strategically rather than emotionally, but that was something Laurent hadn’t learned yet.

He would, later on. He would get better at this game, too. A dangerous art, to have the upper hand. 

“What did you expect was gonna happen when I found out?” Damen asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Did you think I would be okay with it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why couldn’t you just tell me when I,” Damen paused then, closed his eyes, “Told you how I felt about you.”

“I wanted to–”

“Yes, of course you did.”

Laurent let out a small, quiet yet hysterical laugh. “Well, fuck you, Damen.”

The voices around them grew both louder and quieter. They were distantly aware of the place they were at, the things being said about them. 

They didn’t give a fuck. 

Damen continued, and Laurent breathed heavily, taking each and every word directly to his own battered heart, “Why are we even here? This was a mistake.”

“Maybe it was.”

Getting up from the table, “This is it, then.” 

“No.” He panicked, “Wait. Damen, please.”

With a sigh, Damen looked at him, then sat back down. “What?”

“I don’t know,” he replied, automatically, and he cursed himself when Damen sighed again in frustration. 

“What do you know, then, Laurent?”

Had it been anyone else, Laurent would have told them to go fuck themselves. He would have spilled the water over their face and walked out the restaurant, not a glance back.

Perhaps he should have. 

Even if he didn’t have a right to his pride. Even knowing he had been in the wrong, this time. 

But he couldn’t. He needed to make Damen understand. 

That, yes, he was awful sometimes. He made poor choices because he was stupid. He had a huge massive brain that was academically immaculate but still didn’t know how to behave around people the correct way. He felt things so much it was unbearable and he had to be selfish to guard himself from the outside world. 

And sometimes he didn’t even notice he was being an asshole. Sometimes he only realized once the damage was done and he couldn’t fix it. Auguste was supposed to teach him all these things and Laurent took them for granted or didn’t even listen to them and now he was lost, without a guide.

Without a single star on his endlessly dark sky.

So what could he do, but admit he’d fucked up and asked for his comprehension? He just didn’t want to lose Damen again, he would give anything not to lose him again to the worst part of himself. 

Laurent wanted to rub his face. He wanted to break a plate and hit Damen on the face and then hit himself on the face. 

He wanted to scream until he lost the ability to ever speak again. 

“I’m sorry.” He pronounced each word carefully, gravely. He was angry and hurt and exhausted. He was in love. “I know I lied, and kept things from you. I hurt you and I don't expect you to forgive me.”

But,

Their eyes met, and he told himself not to spill one single tear. Damen’s warm, brown eyes were defensive, sealed closed. He was guarding himself against Laurent as if they were in a battlefield. In a way, they were. “I didn't know this was gonna happen between us. I didn't know you would ever…,” _Fall for me back. Kiss me. Hold me. Love me._ “It's not an excuse, but,” A pause, he sighed, “You caught me off guard. The second I saw you in that bar, I didn't know anything anymore. I didn't know I could have this, that I could have _you_.”

Slowly, he saw the way Damen lessened up. He continued, moving up pieces on the board in his mind. Playing with his heart, against his better judgement. “Fabio is special to me too. We'll stay friends, but he's not you Damen.” 

And then,

And then,

And then,

“It's you, it's always been you for me.”

As if snapping out of a trance, Laurent was suddenly aware of how high his voice had been. He’d yelled the whole thing through, basically. 

At some point, one of the hostesses had come to the table and asked them to retire, as they were making the other customers uncomfortable. But they’d ignored her, as well. At that moment, she didn’t exist. 

Nothing existed except from them. 

Had it been good enough? Real enough? Honest enough? That Laurent loved Damen.

It wasn’t pure nor simple. But it was love.

He tried to find something in Damen that gave away the significance of his words, but there wasn’t anything he could use nor hold onto. 

Checkmate?

Laurent’s first instincts were of destruction. His feelings grew and boiled until there was no more impulse control that could retain them. But he’d grown to understand violence could also lay in the simple, clean and quiet. 

He reached out across the table to touch Damen’s hand. Damen took it back. 

Laurent’s whole world fell apart. And the tears he’d fought to swallow down were coming back up in strong bursts. 

In a flash, he saw himself a teenager, running up the stairs of his childhood home to lock himself in his bedroom and nurse the first heartbreak he’d ever experienced. He’d done it so well it had never left his side. 

Damen was right. It was a stupid mistake. Apparently Laurent could never stop making those.

Silence, awful silence befell them and he took a hand to his mouth for fear he would actually sob. 

_Compose yourself._

Laurent didn’t. He took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes, pressing fingers onto the wetness of his own sentimental rain. Damen was watching him, but he didn’t have the means to return the gaze. 

After a minute or so, he put his glasses back on and saw Damen take out his wallet to pay the bill and tip the hostess and waiters for their trouble. 

Quietly, roughly, he said, “Let’s go.”

So they collected themselves, and Laurent followed Damen out of the restaurant, legs shaking. As soon as they were out, he drifted away, trying to call up his brain cells so that he would figure out the number to call to get a cab back to his place.

 _“You tried,”_ Auguste said in his head, just as he used to whenever trying wasn’t enough, _“At least you tried. It’s not on you anymore.”_

It hurt in a way he hadn’t hurt in years. And all he wanted was a bed to fall onto. He wanted to guard himself from every sound and every colour, every overwhelming sensation that came with being alive.

He wanted to die. 

He wanted to forget. 

Hadn’t he said it all but _I love you_? 

Hadn’t he said it all at once?

Why couldn’t it be enough to know his feelings were true? 

Fate and Time had come together to give him a chance, play his hand at this game, and he’d blown it. All the stars in the universe aligned to make them meet again, and what had he done?

 _This is where the movie ends,_ he thought, _this is where the credits roll._

_This is how he lets me go._

Laurent left the hotel quickly, hot tears blurring his vision before spilling down his face. His mind was full of long, awful silences leading to seconds of painfully beating noise. It wouldn’t be long until it developed into a migraine. 

Against his better judgement, he walked down the pavement looking for a cab, having given up on remembering the number or trying to find it online with his poor cellphone network. 

There was one dropping a couple off, and he waited politely until they were walking away before approaching the driver. After discussing the address in his very awkward Italian, the driver opened the back door and he got in. 

He sat with his arms around himself, and as soon as the car was moving, he dropped his head back and closed his eyes. He probably looked dreadful, he thought. A grim superposition of the person he usually was. 

And who was he really? Was he anyone worth mentioning? Worth coming back to?

He was suddenly glad Nicaise was away. No one was home waiting for him and no one would care if he spent yet another sleepless night mindlessly watching awful reality shows.

In that moment, Laurent was very sure he could disappear completely and no one would mind very much. 

That’s when he heard it. 

“Laurent!”

Someone was calling his name.

“Laurent, please!”

Laurent opened his eyes, heart already climbing up his throat. The traffic was low, as they’d missed the rush hour, and it wouldn’t take them too long now before they reached the main street. He looked around, searching for the origin of the sound, and the driver gave him an odd look as he fumbled with the switch to make the window roll down. 

It happened so fast he didn’t even have time to realize what was happening. He stuck his head out the window, and suddenly he was watching Damen, _his Damen_ , running after the cab. Sweating, breathing heavily, trying to catch up with them. 

Their eyes met as Damen yelled again, “Laurent!”

Their eyes met and Laurent saw everything he ever wanted in the shape of a pair of pupils. 

And this is what happened in epic, love stories. This was the defining moment where the audience held their breaths in expectation and awe and fear. 

This is when mistakes were forgiven.

This is when Laurent pulled back inside and asked the driver to _stop the car, right here, yes, I don’t care. Stop._ And he was already pushing the door open before it came to a halt in the middle of the road, the driver cursing lowly in Italian at the _foreigners and their bullshit._

This is what happened when people loved each other.

This is what they always did. Damen always found him, always came back to him. 

And Laurent always stopped. 

He was out, and Damen ran straight onto him, catching him in his arms. He was panting, bringing Laurent towards him with a hand on the back of his neck. 

Laurent swallowed, letting his hands rest on the warmth of Damen’s back. He whispered, “Damen?”

Damen pulled away. He touched Laurent’s cheek gently, knuckles brushing against soft skin. Laurent wanted to lean into the touch, but was too confused to give in. 

“It is you,” Damen said, “for me too.”

Damen kissed him.

And all that build up tension between the two of them evaporated in the form of tears. Laurent held tightly onto Damen, love of his damn life. He kissed him back, and again and again. For a moment he was sure he’d never stop. 

_I almost lost you again._

Sweet and charming as he was. As Laurent remembered, he said, “You have a way with words.”

A small laugh escaped his lips. He didn’t even remember what he’d said, not really. But it was probably something akin to _I love you._

_I love you. I love you. I love you._

“It’s you and me,” he whispered, pressing his forehead gently against Damen’s. 

Damen nodded, joined their hands together, “It’s us.”

And it was. Them. 

***

There was a thing they never told you about falling in love.

The world in its entirety got reduced to a person’s heartbeat. To the way their chest raised and fell with their breaths and the warmth of their blood pumping through their veins. There was tranquility to the touch of a lover. There was gentleness along with affection, but also care. 

Life was such a precious, tenacious thing, sometimes. 

Damen’s life was. 

Laurent couldn’t help but be amazed at how _alive_ he was. How could a person so charming and perfect exist at the same time as him? How much were the odds of ever finding each other in this world? Of surviving hundreds and thousands of days until they got to this moment – so beautiful he could taste it, breathe it in. Save it from the fire. 

Right then and there, sitting on Damen’s lap, his face on Damen’s shoulder, Damen’s arms around him, Laurent knew a life without him, his human anchor, wasn’t a life worth living. 

As he closed his eyes, he thought he’d never want to miss Damen ever again. Instead, he’d only want to keep him closer and closer until they blended as one in their next lives and the ones after. 

Astral gods or constellations. Shooting stars. 

_It’s you and me. It’s us._

A gardener and a swiss roll. A violinist and a carpenter. Poets on a train. 

It was Laurent and it was Damen. It was them. 

After the fight and the kiss and what came after, they went up to Damen’s room at the hotel. They talked, they laughed, they kissed some more. Now that he was finally in his arms, Laurent refused to let Damen go unless absolutely necessary. 

Never again, probably. What could be more necessary than the living heart of the person you loved?

Nothing. Nothing at all. There was only an abyss beyond that. 

“I’m sorry,” Damen had said, in one of the few moments where they’d pulled away from each other’s lips, “about the cruel things I said to you.”

He’d looked properly remorseful as he’d said it. His eyes both bright and sad like the ones of a puppy. Laurent had kissed him again, whispered the most sincere sentence of his life, “I was cruel first.” 

He would have wanted to savour their moment a bit better, but after so many continuous days without sleeping or eating, his body and mind were giving in to exhaustion. 

If it wasn’t for Damen holding him and whispering lovely things in his ear, he would have passed out completely. It’d been too stressful and he’d been brutal to himself. He owed it to his own body to rest.

But he didn’t want to. Not now, when the sun was hanging low and the breeze entering from the open balcony doors smelled like seasalt and promise. 

Any dreams he might have would never compare to the sweet sound of Damen’s even heartbeats and the smell of his cologne on his tan skin. 

“Want me to call you a cab?” Damen whispered, stroking his hair. 

Laurent shifted, pulled away to complain better, “I don’t want to go,” he said, grabbing fistfuls of Damen's shirt. “I don't want to let you go. Just got you back.”

Damen smiled, kissed his temple, “You’re falling asleep.”

Laurent’s eyes were partly closed as he said, “I’m not.”

“I’m not going anywhere, okay? We'll see each other tomorrow.”

“Do you promise?”

Kissing his nose, “I promise.” then his lips. 

With a sigh, he agreed at last, “Okay.”

Laurent wrapped his arms around Damen’s neck, kissed his ear, the side of his head, his cheek, his nose, his shoulder, all while Damen tried to speak on the phone to reception as they had their own taxi service. 

It didn’t take long until he ended the call and switched back his complete attention to Laurent. “You’re mine.”

The way he said it wasn’t aggressive. On the contrary, it seemed to be a sudden realization. Another game. The beginning of a story. 

“And you’re mine,” Laurent said.

“Heart and soul,” Damen replied. 

_And this is what heaven must feel like,_ they thought. _This is the one thing I can’t bear to lose. He’s the most important aspect of my life. He’s necessary, so necessary to my existence._

_I’m game. I’ll always be game._

_He’s perfect._

_He loves me._

_He’s mine._

_He’s here._

_And I’m not broken._

_And I’m not empty._

_Would you share your life with me for the next minute, and the next. And a second more._

_And don’t the angels sing when he looks at me._

_Kiss me._

_Kiss me again._

They only separated once they rang back from the reception, saying that the car was ready and waiting. They walked down hand in hand, Damen making sure to remind Laurent to text him when he arrived only about five times. Laurent blushing at the gesture. 

Damen opened the door of the backseat for him after double checking the address with the driver in perfect Italian. If he stood still, Laurent was sure he was swaying a little. It would take everything not to fall asleep in the car. 

“Remember to text me,” Damen said, yet again. 

Laurnet rolled his eyes a little, nodded, “Yes, alright. Give me another kiss?”

Grinning, “So demanding.” but he did, he pecked Laurent’s lips softly and he almost, almost didn’t get into that taxi. Almost. “Go rest, Lo.”

As the car drove away, Laurent turned to see Damen waving at him. It was sweet and he smiled and waved back. 

Perhaps only the good things mattered. Perhaps only the good words were enough.

It didn’t cross his mind that not just good words made books, and not just good notes made songs. The bad ones, too. 

And they mattered. They mattered a lot. 

***

Damen didn’t get back inside the hotel until he saw the cab disappear around the corner. 

He missed Laurent almost immediately. 

There was a strange dynamic to how things have played out. He hadn’t expected to see Laurent again, much less today, much less in the state he was. 

_“It's you, it's always been you for me.”_

He hadn’t expected Laurent to choose him. 

The words echoed inside of him like droplets of water. He heard them the first time and everything else had gone silent. He heard them and saw Laurent break down in front of him. He heard them and his heart kick-started. 

He heard them as he showered and changed and sent emails while he waited for room service. 

_L: home._

Damen heard them then, just as he always would when things got hard and there was no forward. They would remain. Sometimes they wouldn’t make sense, and some other times they would be the only thing to cling onto.

But that was the nature of love. ~~That was the nature of their game.~~

He smiled, thinking of Laurent’s sweet attention and demanding nature. A tempest embodied. 

His. 

_D: goodnight, sweetheart_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys,
> 
> I really wasn't planning on posting this today. I have a strange relationship with this chapter -- I'm not sure I like it, to be honest. I tried very hard to express everything that needed to happen but I'm not entirely sure I was successful. This is actually very important for the plot, as it's sort of a blueprint for things to come later on. Also it was highly anticipated by most of you after The Fabio Scene and so I'm very sorry if it's not as enjoyable as the others :( also I know it's shorter than the latest ones, but I mean it's....a lot, emotionally. So I didn't want to add anything else. 
> 
> As always, thank you so much for being incredibly lovely. Your messages and comments make me so happy<3 Super thanks to Ellen for editing this on such short notice and for demon-friend for all her help and constant effort. 
> 
> No quotes nor songs today. A new record?! 
> 
> Last thing before I leave: I've been taking some kissing prompts on tumblr and I wrote a little Fabio/Laurent [drabble](http://princesgambit.co.vu/post/635415140193419264/fabiolaurent-41) as well as a short [Cinderella AU](http://princesgambit.co.vu/post/635343229847470080/damenlaurent-20) for Damen/Laurent AND there's a Linger [excerpt](http://princesgambit.co.vu/post/635426387466108928/so-can-we-get-a-cinderella-au-after-linger-that) too from a future chapter! Go check them out if you want and feel free to ask for any prompt on that list. I'm having a lot of fun with it. 
> 
> That's all for now. Please take care out there<3
> 
> See you soon!


	18. Act II: Chapter 16

_“Are you up?”_

Deleted.

_“I miss you.”_

Deleted.

_“Hey.”_

Deleted.

_“I walked along the riverside today and I saw a bunch of ducklings and I thought of you.”_

Deleted.

_“Hey. Do I bother you?”_

Deleted.

_“I heard there’s a new exhibition in town this weekend. Should we go together?”_

Deleted.

_“I’m so utterly bored. Is utterly a word I can use like this?”_

Deleted.

_“I miss you.”_

Deleted.

_“Do I ever cross your mind?”_

Deleted.

_“You never left mine"_

Deleted.

_“Can I come over?”_

Deleted.

_“I miss your skin.”_

Deleted.

_“I miss your smile.”_

Deleted.

_“The sound of your laughter.”_

Deleted.

_“I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know how this is all supposed to make any sense.”_

Deleted.

_“Can I call?”_

Deleted.

_“Do you hate me?”_

Deleted.

_“You do. I know you do.”_

Deleted.

_“I still love you.”_

Deleted.

***

The change came in essence, although not in name.

It came as a new colour palette, like scenes from an indie film or a second movement in a musical piece. It was them, just slightly different. 

Finally, there were no secrets between them. Only a trace of doubt that was palpable but purposely ignored. 

After all, what was _this_ in the big schemes of a story? A few words of the many million they had said and the many more to come in the future. 

What was a secret but silence? What else was a lie but a shadow? 

This is how it worked. Laurent and Damen saw each other almost every day. They spent their lunch breaks together and most of the evenings too. They made amends in the form of kisses and erased lies with words of affection. A superposition of things written in bold black letters. 

They played the game. 

Because, well, Damen was leaving soon, and hadn’t they wasted so much time? Hadn’t they wasted days and months and years and minutes apart? 

Laurent didn’t want to think much of it. Not yet. He didn’t want to remember Damen was leaving again, back to Marlas and the life he’d paused over the summer. The same life Laurent had been avoiding for a year. 

It wasn’t fair, really, that he had to say goodbye so soon. It wasn’t fair that he wanted to ask Damen to stay but Damen hadn’t asked him to leave. It wasn’t fair that he wanted only the things he could never have. 

But that didn’t matter today and it wouldn’t matter tomorrow or the day after. It would only do so for a minute, maybe. For a second. Less than that. 

Maybe it wouldn’t even matter. 

“Laurent,” Damen said, against the sound of the crashing waves, “ _Stop,_ you're getting sand all over me.”

Laurent didn’t look up from the glowy tan skin of Damen’s legs being plastered in sand, “Exactly.”

“Laurent.” A whine. “What are you doing now?”

“I’m burying you.” 

“Can’t you at least do it in the shade?”

“Oh,” Laurent paused, looking up from his hands to the image of Damen, leaning on his elbows to watch him behind a pair of sunglasses, “It’s too late now. Should have spoken earlier.”

Damen groaned, then laid back down in the sand, “I said I was sorry.”

He had, indeed, but that never meant Laurent couldn’t get back at him for the little water accident of thirty minutes ago.

Rewind back to them settling on their little spot at the beach. They’d decided to go in the afternoon, after the sun was past its peak and the heat had reduced considerably, mostly to avoid Laurent becoming a human red lobster and die a painful death afterwards.

While Damen went to get drinks, Laurent laid a pair of towels on the sand and stripped down to his navy blue swim trunks. He could probably sunbathe a total of fifteen minutes before his skin got too hot and had to retreat to the sunshade Damen had set up, but at least the worst of the day had passed already. 

So he lay down and waited, sunglasses on and earbuds in his ears. 

_Come along, baby, we better make a start_

_You better make it soon, before you break my heart_

It was relaxing. For the first time in weeks, he was fully, completely relaxed and he could easily fall asleep feeling warm and content. 

Except he didn’t. Next thing Laurent knew, something akin to a bucket of ice water was falling on his chest and he gasped, recoiling immediately. 

He sat up quickly, snatching the sunglasses off his face as a handful of ice cubs rolled down to his stomach,“What the fuck?!” 

Over him, Damen was watching him horrified. He’d dropped the glass of fizzy water Laurent had asked for, the fucker. “That’s my line!”

Laurent made a sound of frustration as he reached over to pick up his normal glasses and a clean towel, “What are you even talking about?”

“What’s that,” Damen said, kneeling beside him, “On your chest?”

Touching his own chest, Laurent looked down, not seeing anything. “What is what?” 

Damen’s eyes were big as plates. He kept gesturing towards Laurent’s chest, and that’s when it clicked with a big _Oh_ in his head. 

_Oh._

“These?” Laurent asked, staring down at his own _pierced_ nipples. Damen nodded. “That...happened in college. Nicaise and Aimeric got me drunk enough one night that I agreed to getting one.”

“There’s two.” 

Laurent shrugged, dried off the water from his body, “Symmetry.”

Damen was staring. If he wasn’t already red from the sun, he’d probably blushed. “Do they hurt?” Damen asked. 

“Not anymore, no.”

Slowly, deliberately, Damen reached over, his right thumb circling right underneath his left nipple. Laurent made himself not breathe, nor move or blink. Half of his mind was engulfed by curiosity of what Damen would do, and then the other half was lost to his own imagination and the physicality of it. 

“But,” Laurent said, quietly, watching the way Damen’s hand moved on his skin, “They did get more sensitive.”

Their eyes met. 

Clearing his throat, Damen looked down at his lips, then away, then back at his eyes, “You shouldn't…”

Laurent tilted his head to the side, almost innocently, “What?”

Taking a breath, “You shouldn't sunbathe without sunscreen on. You'll burn.”

“Right,” he said, lifting an eyebrow, “Do you want to help me apply it then? I can't reach my back.”

Damen blinked before nodding, “Yes. Okay.” And then again, as he tried to find the sunscreen between their belongings, “Yes.” 

Laurent suppressed a laugh that died too soon, instead replaced by the odd beatings of his heart as Damen moved behind him. Slowly, his smile faltered, although not completely. There was still amusement in his features as he felt Damen’s strong hands rubbing the cream onto his back. It was cold at first, too much, and he straightened his posture unconsciously.

“Is it too cold?” 

Closing his eyes, Laurent shook his head slightly, automatically, “It’s fine.”

Damen didn’t say anything, but Laurent felt his hands working out the lotion between his shoulder blades. And then down, along his column, stopping only before the hem of his swim trunks. He lingered for a bit on the small of Laurent’s back and then went up, up again, retracing his steps and looking for any missing spots.

“Can you,” Damen said, softly, “Pull up your hair for me, please?”

Laurent did. He took a hair tie between his lips as he grabbed his own locks and then tied them up into a small knot. Damen hummed in approval before proceeding to rub cream on his nape as well. 

They’d never done this before. 

They’d never…

Ironically, Damen had never touched him like this before. His hold was steady, yet extremely gentle. He could listen to the sounds of Damen’s quiet breathing and the little sighs he gave. For a moment, Laurent imagined how it’d be if he pushed himself back and let himself fall between Damen’s open arms, pressing onto his chest and making a nest for himself there. 

_How do I live inside you?_

_Would you let me if I tried?_

_Would you welcome me at last?_

_Let me fall,_ he thought, and he saw himself light years away, a glimpse into the past and the future. He would fall. 

Laurent opened his eyes when he realized Damen had stopped. His skin felt sticky against the breeze. He called his name once, twice. When that didn’t work, he turned around, half expecting Damen to have vanished like a pipe dream.

~~Another of many.~~

Instead, he was sitting on a towel looking both extremely young and older than he really was. His eyes were somewhere else, lost to a random pile of sand next to them. Pensive or dazed, there was something in his face...a set of lines about innocence blending into worry that turned to loss and confusion. A lack of something. The moment when a soap bubble explodes mid-air; a sudden sharp pop. 

Unreachable. 

It was similar to how he’d looked on the train to Nesson-Elloy; the air around him changed. Again, Laurent wondered if he was that unhappy.

Was he worried about him leaving, just like Laurent was?

Was he dreading his life back in Marlas, just like Laurent was?

Was he hoping and praying and wishing for an endless summer? 

Laurent touched his cheek tenderly, and when that didn’t work, he poked Damen’s face with both index fingers, trying to get a look back. 

“Earth to Damen,” he teased, pressing a finger deep into the corner of his lips.

Damen reacted then, trying to bite Laurent’s finger only for him to pull his hand out of reach. They exchanged a look, a smile. Next thing he knew, Damen was slathering his hand —still covered in sunscreen— all over his face as revenge.

Annoyed, “Ha-ha, so funny.”

But Damen was laughing, back from whatever place he’d gone off to. He was kissing him softly, affectionately.

“Ew, you taste like sunscreen.”

Laurent wiped the cream off his lips and cheeks with his fingers, “Whose fault is that?”

Quite amusedly, Damen did it again and it was Laurent’s turn to complain, shoving his hand away, “Stop.”

Damen said, “You need to protect your skin.”

“I have a special sunscreen for my face, thank you.”

“Do you now?” Damen chuckled, then kissed him again, “You’ve become so fancy.” 

“You can blame Nicaise,” Laurent said, “He forces me to wear it.”

“Well,” he kissed him, “I’m glad someone has been taking care of you.” And again.

By the time they pulled away, Laurent felt a bit dizzy. So this was how it felt to have Damen’s complete attention. Be the subject of his endless affection. The side effects of a drug he’d never taken. 

_B ~~ut drugs wear off, Laurent.~~ _

~~_Drugs cause addiction._ ~~

~~_Drugs are used to hide the truth._ ~~

~~_Don’t you know there’s a side effect?_ ~~

~~_Don’t you know, Laurent?_ ~~

~~_Don’t you know?_ ~~

“You didn’t apologize,” Laurent said.

“What about?”

“Pouring ice cold water all over me.”

Damen grinned, “I thought it would be refreshing.”

“Should I do the same then?” 

“Now, that’s plagiarism.”

“It’s an eye for an eye, Damianos.”

Forward to the beginning; this is how Damen ended up buried in the sand. It was another rule of the many set of games they’d started over the years. You hit me once, I hit you back. You dare me, I dare you back. 

~~You hurt me. I hurt you too.~~

“Laurent,” Damen said, his voice tense, “There’s a crab.”

Laurent didn’t pay him much attention, focused on filling up an empty plastic cup with sand to make a tower beside one of Damen’s feet. “There’s not.”

“Laurent,” Damen said again, and his muscles tensed up underneath all the sand, “I can see it.”

“Don’t be such a baby. So what, there are crabs on the beach. You’ve discovered hot water.”

“I don’t want it to bite me!”

“You’re boring me,” he sighed, then paused to look at the water, “It’s really hot. I’ll go swim for a while.” 

Damen protested, “Wait! You can’t leave me here.”

“Why, will you be lonely?” Laurent asked, patting Damen on the head, “You can talk to the crab.”

“Laurent _Raphael_ de Vere!”

At the mention of his full name, Laurent laughed, dropping his head forward as he did so. “Fine,” then, he reached over into one of their duffel bags to take out the carousel box, “Tell you what — I’ll unbury you if we play the game.”

“Oh my God. Fine, say your dare.”

“I’m thirsty,” Laurent smiled, “Go steal us some beer from those frat boys over there, will you?”

Damen groaned, then nodded frantically as the tiny crab made a way for his big toe. “I’m game. Unbury me.”

Laurent arched an eyebrow, “Is that an order?”

Quietly, in a breath, “ _Please_.”

Laurent complied then, although in all honesty, he took his sweet time undoing the small sand fort he’d built over Damen. A few seconds of latency were enough for the crab to reach Damen’s foot and this one squealed as he wiggled his toes away. Mechanically, Laurent grabbed a wooden stick he’d been using as a tool and pushed the crab away, then trapped him inside the plastic cup from earlier. He pressed it down on the sand so that it wouldn’t come loose under the crab’s will force. 

“See, I won’t let anything happen to you,” Laurent said, freeing Damen from his trap. “Ever.”

“How thoughtful of you,” Damen said, taking the carousel box and shaking his head. “I’ll get your beer.”

And he did. Laurent sat in the shade and watched Damen approach the group of guys, sharing bags of doritos and talking loudly about sports. They’d been stealing stuff as part of the game for some good years now, and so it wasn’t a surprise when Damen grabbed a six pack from their cooler while remaining unnoticed. 

It hit him at once how good-looking and captivating Damen was in nothing but his swim trunks and a pair of sunglasses on his head. A memory from another life, like that one cursed night in the pool back in Marlas. Except, Damen was older now. He liked to work out everyday and ate less junk food and was in perfect shape. 

He was toned. ~~He was hot~~. He was perfect. Closer now to his thirties, and he only got more handsome with time. 

Laurent wanted him all to himself. He wanted to keep him inside a jar, the same way he’d do a heart; steal it and never give it back.

When Damen came back, he placed the six pack in front of him and offered him the box, “Since you’re so thirsty, why don’t you have some sea water as well?”

_I guess I deserve that._

After releasing the crab from its impromptu jail, Laurent followed Damen as he washed the cup in the water and then filled it up to the top before handing it to him. 

Laurent took the cup in his hands. He said, “To your health,” and then took a generous sip.

It was horrendous. It was salty and had a _texture_ that water wasn’t supposed to have. Immediately, he thought of spitting up before he threw up. 

Damen read his mind, however, and said, “Swallow it, Laurent.”

He shook his head, mouth full and stomach turning. Damen gave him a look, “ _Laurent_.” Laurent shook his head again, found himself pouting. 

“Do you yield then?” Damen asked. 

Resignedly, Laurent exhaled through his nose and swallowed the water down. He knew it was a mistake when he felt it come back up and he gagged before doubling over, throwing up sea water, like a fountain. 

At least they hadn’t eaten yet. 

Damen chuckled, patted him on the back a couple times, “Good boy.”

“I will,” Laurent choked out, “Kill you.”

“Sure you will.”

“I mean it,” he said, cleaning his mouth with the back of his hand, “Get me a beer, you asshole.” And then, when Damen did as he was told, he flashed him a grin, “You’re so obedient. Just like a puppy.”

Damen rolled his eyes, then slapped his ass in response. Laurent yelped forward before glaring, his cheeks turning bright red. 

“I take it back,” he said in a calm, serious voice against the clear signs of his fluster, “You’re a naughty puppy, Damianos.”

“Whatever you say, sweetheart.” He said so amusedly, a playful smile adorning his face. 

_Asshole_. 

“There are people watching!” 

“I couldn’t help it.”

Laurent flushed harder. “Yeah? No more of that, see if you can help yourself then.” He shoved the box against his chest, “Twenty-four hours. No touching each other. Game?”

With the box in his hands, Damen eyed him up and down, almost defiantly. “Game.”

What is the term, again? 

Ah.

That’s right. 

_Folie à deux_

***

It is a truth universally acknowledged that if there’s something we can’t have, then that’s exactly what we want. 

We’re all weak to the forbidden. 

Damen wasn’t exempt. After all, he always enjoyed a challenge. Now, was eating the apple a challenge more than it was a trap? 

Was the satisfaction of having something forbidden the trigger of their doom, or was it just what came in spite of it? Along with it?

He wasn’t sure. Damen looked at Laurent standing next to him, cheeks red from being in the sun, smelling like sea salt, smiling as he talked about a movie he’d seen the other night about time travelling, and he wanted to touch him all over.

Feel him everywhere. Inch by inch. 

It was such a strange drive, but not new. By now, he’d understood that it was a side effect of the game. The impulsiveness that came with the dares. The sudden bursts of desire. The hidden aspects of what was so deeply longed for but was unattainable. 

Unless he yielded. And he wouldn’t. Sometimes he thought he didn’t actually want to win, but if he had to ever lose, it would have to be for something worth a lifetime of challenges and not just anything. 

So he wouldn’t break. Damen focused on being overly aware of himself and the distance that separated them. He couldn’t touch a hair on Laurent’s head without losing, so he needed to be cautious. 

Not a hair. Not a finger. Not forehead-flicking or hand holding. Not whispering in his ear to earn a bright, slow smile full of teeth. Not kissing the side of his head or his nose or his soft small lips. 

Not reaching down to trace fingers along the smooth milky-white skin of Laurent’s inner thigh; a tease of a shared sentiment that they hadn’t spoken out loud yet. 

Damen swallowed, looked away to other people sitting outside of the restaurant they were queuing at. Twenty-four hours, huh? 

“I’m so hungry,” Laurent complained, beside him, “This line isn’t getting any shorter.”

It wasn’t. They’d been standing there for the past twenty minutes and they still hadn’t been able to even write their names for a reservation. Laurent had suggested the place; a very popular American styled restaurant with what he’d called the best sweet potato fries of his entire life.

After an afternoon in the beach, they were exhausted and starving and so Damen would have agreed to anything. Plus it was rather charming to have Laurent show him around his favourite places in town. A part of his life Damen had almost completely missed. Another one, that is. 

“We can go somewhere else,” he shrugged, refraining from touching his shoulder or hooking his arm around him. 

“No,” Laurent said, stepping on his toes to see further ahead, “This is ridiculous,” he muttered.

Damen rolled his eyes. _Stubborn as hell_. “If you can think of a way to get us inside without pissing off the people in front of us, be my guest.”

“Is that a dare?”

“No, it’s not.”

“Because _technically_ , we have twenty more hours of _my_ dare.”

“You can’t change the dare now, that’s against the rules.”

“It is not a rule.”

“Just because it isn’t written means that you can get away with it.”

“Okay you know what?” Laurent said, turning to look at him, “You stay here and come over on my signal.”

Blinking, “What?” And then, as Laurent walked away, “Laurent, no, wait!”

Laurent was going to get them killed. Or barbecued. Or both. 

Turning on his heels, Laurent walked backwards and gave him a grin and a wink, “I got this.” he mouthed, then blew him a kiss. 

They were fucked.

Damen stood in line and watched Laurent pull up his hair in a bun as he walked to the entrance. Then he smiled, one of his polite, _terrible_ smiles and Damen’s heart stopped in his chest the moment Laurent reached over to touch the host’s forearms and then biceps, feigning a chuckle. The guy’s attention drifted all to him, and Damen knew his soul had been sold to Laurent’s beauty by the way he was biting his lower lip. 

He clenched his jaw automatically and shook his head away. The annoying, itchy sensation of unfiltered jealousy. 

The host and Laurent exchanged a few more words that Dament couldn’t make out, and after a minute or two, he watched Laurent scribble something down on the guy’s notepad before this one smiled and gestured towards the door. He disappeared, and then Laurent’s smile faded. He turned to Damen, waving at him to come closer. 

_What the hell?_

“Did you just flirt our way in?” Damen whispered the moment he caught up with Laurent, following the host to a table he’d cleared for them. 

Laurent eyed him playfully, “Why, does that surprise you?” 

Damen eyed him back, not willing to show his annoyance, “A little.” 

“Funny,” Laurent said, grinned, “I thought I learned that from you.”

Once again, Damen thought, _What the hell?_

“Did you give him your number?”

“What if I did?”

“ _Laurent_.”

“You look hot while you’re jealous,” Laurent whispered, “Too bad we cannot touch.”

Damen scoffed, “I’m not jealous.”

A chuckle, “Tell that to your face.”

They sat across from each other, and the host gestured for a waiter to serve them. Neither of them said much as they scanned the menu and the list of drinks. 

“Are you upset?” Laurent asked.

“No,” not really. Only a bit annoyed at the way most people were enchanted by Laurent’s looks. Yes, he was breathtaking, but still that didn’t mean they could just eye him up and down like he was some sort of— “It’s just new for me.” And then, “Seeing you like this.”

Laurent tilted his head to the side, pushed his glasses up his face, “Like this.”

Damen nodded.

“Well, it’s not new for me.” Laurent shrugged. Their fingers met at the center of the table, but neither of them pushed forward to touch each other. They were an inch apart, edging on what they were denying themselves. “Damen, I’m here with you and you only. Okay?”

Okay?

Why did they do so much for a game?

He took his hand back, if only to avoid placing it on top of Laurent’s. He felt warmth pool on his cheeks, “This is a stupid dare,” Damen said, “I hope you know that.”

And there it was; that laugh. It was the same laugh Laurent had had as a child and teenager. A less reserved kind of emotion. Less repressed. More authentic. 

More Laurent. 

“Maybe you’re right,” he said, “But it’s just another one of many.”

“How long do you think it'll take for you to finally lose the game?”

“You underestimate me, my dear brute. I think I have more self control than you.”

“Do you now?”

“Yes, well, I did hide the fact that I liked you for years.”

Laurent looked at him as he said so. It was sincere and it was grounding. He knew by his posture that Laurent was holding himself carefully, as in walking on loose rope. It was rare for him not to shy away from such a type of honesty. 

Whether he was embarrassed or regretful, Damen couldn’t really tell. 

A pause.

Softly, he said, “Laurent.”

Laurent’s eyes didn’t move. He shrugged a little, “Well, maybe not effectively.”

Damen shook his head, smiled, “It was flattering.”

“Glad I stroked your ego.”

“That’s not what I meant. You were sweet back then. Whatever happened to you.”

He regretted it as soon as he said it. He heard the crash and the bang. He smelled the smoke. Damen knew he was prying open a door that neither of them had wanted to touch, and he’d done so in such an incredibly stupid and insensible way. 

Because everyone knew what had happened to Laurent. Everyone already read that chapter. Everyone knew about Auguste. 

He knew about Auguste. 

Laurent didn’t lash out at him nor he retreated. Whether Damen’s comment was ignored or missed, it didn’t seem to matter. Laurent said, “I don’t know what you're talking about, I'm sweet as candy still.”

Damen’s heart was still beating oddly. He nodded, “With a sour center.”

“Well you've tasted me before. You should know.” 

He couldn’t contain the burst of surprise laughter that came out of him, “Oh my god. Shut up, or I will stab you with my fork.”

“Stop, that's such a Nicaise thing.”

And then they were laughing. And the door remained unopened. They ordered two cheese burgers and shared a load of rosemary wedges and the so-called famous sweet potato fries. That would become one of Damen’s strangely favourite memories; the image of a summer-loving young and spirited Laurent, with his blond hair even lighter thanks to the sun and tied up in a bun that left a few strands out. Laughing behind a tall milkshake and telling stories of his worst moments of cultural shock when moving abroad. 

He was happy. There was nothing else to it; just happiness. And so, Damen would begin to perceive and accept happiness as a collection of moments dispersed in time. All those moments when they were both still changing for the better. 

“I always liked you, you know?" Laurent laughed, taking a spoonful of his dessert, "You do know, of course you know. I don't think I hid it well, not even before I kissed you."

When Damen didn’t say anything, Laurent continued. “How embarrassing. You must have thought I was being so...silly.” His eyes wandered down to the table, then back up again. Ocean waves, mirrors of skies. "But I— just.. wanted to be close to you. And that hasn't changed.”

“I never thought you were silly,” Damen whispered.

Young, maybe. Too young. Too reckless. Somehow, a bit immature. A bit conceited. But all those things weren’t actually Laurent’s fault. They came with growing up. Damen didn’t regret his decision. It had been better this way, even if he’d lost him. 

Unfortunately, Damen had ruined it all a little. In more than one aspect.

I ~~t should have been you. It should have been you. It should have been you. It should have been you. It should have been you. It should have been you. It should have been you. It should have been you. It should have been you. It should have been you. It should have been you. It should have been you. It should have been you. It should have been you. It should have been you. It should have been you. It should have been you. It should have been you. It should have been you. It should have been you. It should have been you.~~ ~~t should have been you. It should have been you.~~

Inside his head, he could hear the sound of a pounding door. When he closed his eyes, he saw a flash of blood. 

“Will you wait for me,” Laurent was saying, quietly, shyly, “Just for a little bit? I think I've always been waiting for you.”

It was such a sweet thing to say. Damen said what he’d been thinking for a long time now,

“Maybe we met again because we were supposed to.” 

“Destiny then?”

“Maybe we already met.” Damen said, eyes lingering down to their almost joined hands, “Don’t you think? If it’s true that we have more than one life. That we come back. Maybe this has all happened before. They do say those who don’t know their history tend to repeat it.”

Laurent smiled, soft and charmed, “What do you think we were doing in previous lives? I mean, who were we?” 

“I think you were a musician,” Damen said, “You love music so much.”

“I do, that’s true. I could have been friends with Tchaikovsky.”

“Is that your hidden fantasy?”

“Absolutely. That one is right next to being able to talk to horses.”

“Only horses? Or all animals?”

“All animals? That’s ambitious, even for a linguist.”

“Who do you think I was before?”

“I think you were a savage king who loved to terrorize people.”

“A tyrant, then?”

“Yes.” Another smile, “To be fair, I don’t think you’d have the balls to be a tyrant.”

Damen laughed, “Wow.”

“You probably were one of those good ones. Damianos the Kind. Damianos the Just.” 

“I wonder how I died.”

“Like all good people die; stabbed to the heart. Betrayed. And me, I probably died the way all artists and poets do; passionately.”

“Dramatically.”

“Would you,” Laurent asked then, carefully, “Make me a promise?”

“Anything.”

“Find me again in our next life.”

“I will,” he said, after a nod. He smiled, “In each and every single one we have. I’ll find you. _”_

“Ask me to play a game,” Laurent said, “When you do. Maybe that way I’ll know.”

“Do you think we can find another carousel box in the future?”

“It would be a tough task. Maybe we can bring this one with us.”

It was a vow as much as it was a contract. A promise. 

I give you this carousel box, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and health, to love and to cherish.

Until death do us part.

And after that.

***

It was Laurent’s idea to go to the bar. 

Damen had casually mentioned going for a drink after they’d been walking around the centre, just hanging out and talking, helping their bodies digest all the junk food they’d eaten. 

And so Laurent had said he knew the exact place to go. Thus, how they ended up in one of tiny unassuming places, hidden away from tourists and loved dearly by locals. It was a karaoke bar opened for the first time in the eighties and that still remained with a sort of underground punk rock aesthetic. None of the walls were painted the same; some were entirely black and some burgundy or striped in white, however covered in posters and framed CDs and Vinyls. Avant-garde in a way. They usually played a lot of British alternative and it was as if the entire place was the whole embodiment of a piece of Laurent’s persona. 

They had open mic nights on Fridays and then karaoke the rest of the week from seven to three in the morning. It was one of Laurent’s favourite places to go alone when he had nothing better to do, especially in winter time. Nicaise hated it, which only made Laurent want to go more often, sometimes dragging him along with the promise of a round of shots. 

It was full when they made it, but not packed and so they managed to find a table in a corner next to a wall full of different shaped mirrors. 

“What do you want to drink?” Damen asked, leaning closer to his ear.

Laurent did the same, cupping his hand around his mouth as he said, “Vodka pineapple.”

Damen nodded and almost, _almost_ gave in to kiss Laurent’s forehead, but stopped himself midway, remembering. He cursed and it made Laurent chuckle, then gave him a sweet look before he disappeared to get their drinks. 

He settled in as he waited, leaning his chin on his hand as he watched a girl come onstage and sing one by The Smiths. Her accent deemed her Italian, but sang well and passionately. Wrongfully accentuating the words, nonetheless. A group of about five girls were cheering her on, calling her name and singing along with her, calling the attention of a nearby table full of guys their same age. 

Laurent paid them little attention, focusing instead on the words. 

_Take me out tonight,_

_Where there's music and there's people_

_And they're young and alive_

_Driving in your car_

_I never, never want to go home_

_Because I haven't got one_

_Anymore_

Laurent disliked Morrissey as much as he disliked Hemingway, as people anyway. Although he could save the music because it was good and sometimes too relatable. But he couldn’t save Hemingway’s words even if he tried, and he never would, really. 

He thought of texting Nicaise, for he hated Morrissey as much as he did but did know the lyrics to the entire The Smiths discography. 

_L: I’m at your favourite place and they’re playing your favourite song._

It was one in the afternoon in Canada. Nicaise replied faster than he’d expected.

_N: I don’t know you._

Avoiding the words was easier than easing them into his system. The girl on the stage sang “ _To die by your side is such a heavenly way to die._ ”

_And if a ten ton truck kills the both of us._

_To die by your side._

_Well, the pleasure, the privilege is mine._

Laurent wouldn’t open that door. He heard it pounding, demanding to be finally open. He ignored it. He would continue to ignore it for as long as he could. Whether the song choice was a coincidence or just an ironic way of life fucking with him, he would just let it be.

Let it ache. 

His mind pulled back a memory for him, though. When Auguste was fifteen, he’d convinced their mother to let him take guitar lessons. He wanted to impress a girl who went to a music school. 

_There is a light that never goes out,_ Auguste’s voice said in his head. Over and over, just like Morrissey. _There is a light that never goes out._

Damen came back to him when the song was almost over. He smiled brightly like the sun, gave him an apologetic look, “The bar was very busy. Here you go.” He placed the drink in front of him and then took the seat by his side. He did that a lot. 

“Thanks,” Laurent said, giving him a smile back. He took a sip of his drink, relishing on the sweetness of the pineapple soothing the kick punch of the vodka. “What are you having?”

Shaking his glass a little, Damen smacked his lips after he drank, “Whisky.” 

“Do you like the place?”

“It looks fun,” he nodded, looking around, then arching an eyebrow at the singer, “The Smiths though?”

He shrugged, simply, “Maybe she’s going through something.”

“Are you going to sing?”

“I’m not drunk enough for that yet.” A chuckle, “Are you?”

Damen side glanced at him, then shook his head a little. “No.”

“One song?”

“No.”

“Why are you so boring?”

Damen laughed. 

“I will sing if you do,” Damen suggested. 

“We can duet.”

“Right, and what are our options?”

Teasingly, “We can’t go wrong with _Total Eclipse of the Heart.”_

“How about _Don’t Stop Believing_?”

“I hate that song.”

“What a little snob you are.”

“I am not, I just happen to have taste.”

“I might just dare you to sing _Dancing Queen_ all by yourself.”

Laurent snorted and was ready to protest when another song started playing. He looked back to the stage to see the girl had finished her song and was now sitting back with her friends. The normal playlist resumed, then, as no one else was queuing for the stage, and Laurent’s heart stopped in itself. 

_If you, if you could return_

_Don't let it burn_

_Don't let it fade_

What had he said back then? _She’s in love._

“Damen,” Laurent said, smiling in spite of himself, “It’s our song.”

He had ever since skipped that song, almost banned it from his iPod. He could never grow to hate it, but he’d decided to never let it find its way back into his heart. Just as he had sworn to do with Damen.

And here they were. Laurent, Damen, the carousel box and a song. The door was still there, they both could hear it and yet neither of them was brave enough to turn the knob, take a step through it. 

“Linger,” Damen said, “By The Cranberries.”

Laurent didn’t need to say it, because Damen knew. Damen remembered. 

And if he knew and he remembered, then that meant this was as profound for him as it was for Laurent. He had nothing to fear, nothing to doubt.

They could be an ocean away and still it wouldn’t matter. Just like that failed kiss in the pool hadn’t mattered. And the lies and the fights and anything else that meant they couldn’t, shouldn’t be together.

If there’s will, there’s a way. Then so be it. 

Laurent took another long sip from his drink, he swayed a little with the music, remembering not to touch Damen’s face nor grab his hands in his. 

“ _But you always really knew_ ,” he mouthed, “ _I just want to be with you._ ”

Damen smiled. Together, they sang along, “ _You know I'm such a fool for you. You've got me wrapped around your finger. Do you have to let it linger? Do you have to, do you have to, do have to let it linger_?”

_Do you love me?_

_Will you love me?_

_Today, tomorrow, and after?_

“You were right,” Laurent whispered, as the song faded away, “This is a stupid dare.”

***

More drinks followed and people kept taking the stage as the night progressed. 

Laurent’s tolerance for vodka was low, and so it wasn’t long until he was what Nicaise would call completely hammered. Three drinks was what it took. Damen had a better resistance, and yet the mixing of different things didn’t help. 

They were laughing, clapping along the singers that were equally drunk and pouring their hearts out on stage with iconic singles from the last three decades. They cheered and whooped sometimes sang too. 

There was Alanis Morrisette and Radiohead but also U2 and Coldplay. Not everyone was good, but karaoke wasn’t about talent more than it was about putting on a good show. 

It escalated fairly quickly as Laurent was getting through a mojito and a british tourist had asked for Let’s Dance to Joy Division by The Wombats, a song that —was also fairly new, from three years ago or so— demanded not to be sung but yelled. He was quick enough to leave his drink and usher Damen to his feet, then on top of the tables with him. 

Cue to them daring each other to dance on tabletops, not caring about the rules of the game, but still trying not to hold onto each other as they did so. 

The bar was buzzing with energy and it was an atmosphere he had learned to hate in college and out with his friends, but not here with Damen. He was sweaty and hot and there were too many people out of the sudden, but everyone was having a good time and he was _pissed_ so why wouldn’t he also have a good time? 

“We’re going to break a leg!” Damen said, over the music.

Laurent laughed, nodding, “I know!”

Shaking his head, “You’re such a bad influence!”

“You love that about me!”

That’s when they heard it, the piano chords accompanied by drums. People all over the bar cheered. It was one of those fun tunes, another one about drugs but in a nonchalant way. He loved that song, he didn’t know anyone who could hate that song.

Suddenly, they were on the stage, Damen and him. Suddenly they had a pair of mics. Suddenly Damen was singing with him, even if neither of them knew the lyrics very well and they were drunk out of their minds. 

“ _She's got electric boots, a mohair suit,_ ” they sang, and Laurent felt his glasses sliding off his face. He pushed them back up with the side of his hand, “ _You know I read it in a magazine, ohh-oh._ ”

Everyone in the bar said, “ _B-B-B-Bennie and the Jets._ ”

The night ended with them making out against the backdoor of a parked cab, waiting for them to get in or let him leave. 

It was only after the first minute or so of Laurent sliding his hands under Damen’s shirt that Damen pulled away, “Wait.”

Laurent rolled his eyes, pulling him back and kissing him sloppily, “Nope.”

Damen kissed him back, then said, “The dare.”

“What dare?”

“The no touching dare.”

Laurent hummed, considering it. He kissed him again, “That dare.”

“I guess we both lost.”

“Really?” he smiled against Damen’s mouth, “I feel like a winner right now.” 

***

It didn’t feel strange when they went home together. 

It didn’t feel strange as Laurent led Damen upstairs to the top floor and inside his empty apartment. It didn’t feel strange as they smiled and kissed, rather unhurriedly. Nor was it odd when Damen lifted him up and he wrapped his legs around his torso, pressing kisses to his face. 

Laurent guided Damen to his bedroom in the dark and was overly aware of himself as Damen let him down on the bed. It was cold and he shivered a little. There was enough light entering from the outside world; streetlights, the moonshine. He’d left his curtains opened and now he was being showered in light. 

When Damen bent down to kiss him again, Laurent saw those beautiful warm eyes covered in the same silver light and he felt heat spread from within him to every inch of his body. Unconsciously though, he shivered. 

Was it because he’d been wanting this for so long and he couldn’t believe it was finally happening? Or was he afraid of the consequences; of how this would change it all forever. 

“Damen.”

Damen stopped to look at him, gently brushed away a curl out of his face, “Sweetheart.”

Laurent didn’t know what to say then. _Tell me you love me. Tell me you want me. Tell me you’ll keep my forever, no matter what. Tell me, tell me, tell me, because I could never tell you._

_But I need to hear it from you. Even if I can’t ever reassure you the same way._

_Tell me anyway._

The lack of response made Damen frown slightly. “Are you okay?”

He nodded, struggling to find any words. “Yes.”

Then, Damen caressed his cheek gently. He whispered, “We don’t have to do this.” 

Laurent shook his head. He looked up at Damen, willed his body back into control, “Kiss me.”

He didn’t wait for an answer, however. He grabbed Damen’s shirt, pulling him down and clashing their mouths together. 

_I love you. I want you. I’ll keep you forever, no matter what. I will tell you because perhaps you never will._

_But I need you to hear it from me. Even if you can’t reassure me the same way._

_I’ll tell you anyway._

Laurent opened his mouth for Damen when he asked, made a sound when this one bit his bottom lip and it deepened his own want. 

_Maybe I will die,_ Laurent thought, _from this feeling._ Like all good artists and poets and musicians. _Maybe this will kill me passionately, dramatically._

_Then so be it._

“Do you want to?” Damen asked, looking into his eyes. 

“Yes.” And then, a bit shyly, awkwardly, “Do you?”

Damen smiled, kissed his cheek, “Yes.” And his chin, “Yes.” and his nose, “Yes.” He kept whispering the word as he kissed him down his neck. “This is in the way,” he said, making Laurent smile as he let Damen undress him. He lifted Damen’s shirt up as well, letting it fall to the floor, then toyed with the belt on his waist, undoing it and stripping Damen out of his jeans. 

“Much better,” Damen said, admiring his body. Nudity wasn’t something that explicitly bothered him with other lovers, and yet with Damen’s eyes on him, he felt exposed. He wanted to tell him not to look, but it was silly. 

Damen continued to slowly press kisses all over his body and biting lightly in certain spots, exploring Laurent’s desire. He seemed to delight in the effect he had in him by using his tongue around Laurent’s pierced nipples. 

“Ah, so they _are_ more sensitive.”

He flushed hard. He gasped, “Shut up.”

Damen gave him a grin. 

It was a lot. And he—

If there was a feeling in the world that could make someone’s heart stop at once, then it would be _this_. Damen over him, giving him all: the affection, the playfulness, the sweetness. The honesty that came with sharing a lover’s bed.

Laurent whimpered when he took Damen inside him. He felt raw and unbalanced as he hooked his arms around Damen’s neck for a minute, adjusting to the sensation of it. Damen had taken his sweet time to prepare him, and was now nuzzling his nose against his. It made him smile. 

“Okay?”

He nodded, moving his hips against Damen’s to set up their pace. He’d taken off his glasses and so he felt the impulse to close his eyes, but Damen’s voice pleaded with him to open them. To look at him. 

So Laurent did. 

“You’re beautiful,” Damen said.

“You’re perfect.” And he wanted to cry.

“It’s you and me.” 

“It’s us.”

He moaned as Damen thrusted into him, his brain shutting down willingly. He let himself be loved by the man he was sure was the love of his life for as long as he could have it. He would save all those compliments, little words of praise that made him want to sing songs about love and dance on tabletops. 

He wouldn’t open the door. 

_Maybe you will kill me,_ Laurent thought, _Maybe you will kill me passionately, dramatically._

_And I will let you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello guys!!
> 
> Very sorry for not having updated. I can't even tell time anymore -- I've been having a weird few weeks. Just going through a rough patch, really and my health isn't doing great either so, again very sorry. 
> 
> However, I managed to finally sit down and finish this chapter and although I know it's not as good, I hope it's at least somewhat entertaining (?) lol, after all, the Italian sub-arc finishes next chapter, and then after that we'll go back to Marlas and enter...ANOTHER sub-arc. Tah-dah! ¿? Anyway, super excited to share that with you so, can't wait!!
> 
> Again I want to thank all of you for being super lovely, for all of your comments and messages. They do help me get through the days and you're the reason why I'm still trying to writewritewrite as much as I can. Thanks also to Ellen for being amazing and editing super short notice and demon-friend for all her help and support. 
> 
> "Come along, baby, we better make a start / You better make it soon, before you break my heart.” lyrics taken from Everywhere by Fleetwood Mac.
> 
> "Take me out tonight / Where there's music and there's people / And they're young and alive / Driving in your car / I never, never want to go home / Because I haven't got one / Anymore." & “To die by your side is such a heavenly way to die.” & “And if a ten ton truck kills the both of us. / To die by your side / Well, the pleasure, the privilege is mine.” lyrics taken from [There Is A Light That Never Goes Out](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=siO6dkqidc4) by The Smiths. 
> 
> "If you, if you could return / Don't let it burn / Don't let it fade" & "But you always really knew / I just want to be with you" & "You know I'm such a fool for you / You've got me wrapped around your finger / Do you have to let it linger? / Do you have to, do you have to, do have to let it linger?” lyrics taken from [Linger](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G6Kspj3OO0s) by The Cranberries.
> 
> "She's got electric boots, a mohair suit / You know I read it in a magazine, ohh-oh / B-B-B-Bennie and the Jets." lyrics taken from [Bennie And The Jets](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wo1OwRTRKRk) by Elton John.
> 
> I think that’s all for now. I recently posted and [angst prompt](http://princesgambit.co.vu/post/636052137266364416/i-love-some-good-angst-how-about-20-for) with a glimpse into the future arcs of Linger, in case anyone is interested! No spoilers whatsoever, just sweet, sweet pain >:) 
> 
> Love you all lots, see you soon (I hope)<333
> 
> P.S.1: Yes, the texts are Damen’s.  
> P.S.2: Yes, I did name Laurent ‘Raphael’ and I think it’s hilarious.  
> P.S.3: Yes, those quotes are from an old lil intro, and yes, they’re modified and in a different setting. And yes, it was on purpose ;)


	19. Act II: Chapter 17

...then.

...nd then.

...And then.

And then.

_ A monster was crying.  _

He ran.

Laurent de Vere ran.

Down the stairs, trying not to trip over his feet and fall. Trying to see beyond the blur of his tears and his glasses. 

Trying very hard not to breathe, not to blink, not to think, not to touch  _ anything _ . It was all overwhelming, it was all too much. He didn’t want any of it. He didn’t want to  _ feel _ a thing. 

_ A monster was crying.  _

Just what had he done? What had he almost done? And why, why, why,  _ why _ had the thought even crossed his mind? Why had he gone completely blind, completely unaware and out of it?

What had he done?

He’d ruined it, he’d ruined it forever. He’d ruin his own life, he almost—

He would go to hell.

Down the stairs, skipping steps, running in a loop like in one of his nightmares, never reaching the bottom, just going and going and going until whatever that was chasing him caught up with him.

This time, however, he was awake, and there was no one chasing him. If anything, he was running from himself. The scene he left behind — the feelings, that cursed carousel box and—

_ Damen _ . And that look on his face. 

He felt himself sob harder. He was going to be sick. He was going to faint. He was going to die. He was going to hell.

He would go to hell.

_ A monster was crying.  _

But hell, he had learnt, wouldn’t claim him. Hell wouldn’t come to him yet, because he still needed to fuck up a little bit more. 

He still needed to wreck it all a little bit more. 

Laurent de Vere should have run before. He should have run years ago. He should have listened. 

Too late now, Laurent. 

You’ve become the monster, after all. 

And now you shall cry. 

***

Laurent woke up first. He opened his eyes to a golden world. 

And it was a funny thing, sometimes, to be aware of the phantom of every little kiss, every little bruise left on his body. If he were to ever describe it, he would say he ached splendidly. 

And it was but another funny thing, to relish in such a kind of pain. Perhaps the rawness of pleasure was as desirable as its after effects and not in spite of it. 

For it meant he had been touched with a want so strong it had been unstoppable. And if he’d been treated unkindly, which he hadn’t, it was only because he asked for it. 

Even so, Damen was so careful, so gentle. Laurent had appreciated the gesture a moment before asking Damen to fuck him harder. 

All for the romanticism. 

It was comical though, they laughed about it for a minute or two before Damen complied. As his mind grew awake slowly, the previous night came to him in flashes and echoes. Scattered pieces of karaoke songs and the taste of vodka lingering on Damen’s mouth after he’d kissed him. 

Those same lips traveling across his body, whispering the sweetest nothings in his ears. 

It felt like he had been brutally ripped open by the kindest of lovers. He felt completely exposed and seen and he had hated it until he hadn’t. Until he reached over and did the same thing. 

Eye for an eye. 

Laurent blinked a few times, eyes adjusting to the rays of midday sun shining through the closed balcony windows. They’d forgotten to draw the curtains, and so now the room was hot and he was beginning to feel uncomfortably sticky. Even though he was naked and barely covered by soft white sheets, he could still feel it, threatening to suffocate him. 

He got up reluctantly, reaching down for whatever pair of underwear he found on the floor. He slid them on clumsily and walked barefoot towards the french doors, coming to find the handle by mere muscle memory. He then turned the keys without hesitation, pushing it free with a hand and was greeted by the gentle passing of morning breeze. 

Laurent contemplated the blue skies above him before taking a look back to the bed and the  ~~ blurry ~~ image of Damen there.

_ Hey kid, good morning. You look like an angel.  _

It wasn’t a dream. Not at all. Sign 0. 

His dreams weren’t so kind to begin with. Not nearly as detailed and pleasant either, and not as idyllic as getting a perfect clone of the man that had kept him awake all night. There was only fear in his dreams. Longing too, the painful type. 

So maybe he could instead live off memories like this. Maybe when times were rough, he would be able to come back to this moment and inhale the scent of a better life; a night well-lived and a still expectant morning. 

He couldn’t control the rules of his subconscient but he could control these memories, if he was careful and clever and patient. He would learn to. 

Laurent put on his glasses and returned to his side of the bed. Felt himself smiling softly.  _ How curious.  _ He held his breath and lay back down under the covers slowly as to not startle Damen, who still slept soundly. 

_ “You’re perfect.” _

They were.

Damen’s chest raised and fell in quiet, even breaths and his face was all relaxed features. A peaceful image.  _~~What if I could never give you peace?~~ _ Laurent reached over, brushed Damen’s hair away from his face. He then traced a finger over his dark eyebrows, and then the bridge of his nose in one swift motion. Damen remained immutable. 

_ I could kill him _ , he thought. 

In the end, he supposed the ‘morning after’ was all about a shared vulnerability; he could still feel Damen between his hands, on his lips, biting kisses that now bruised his skin. He could feel him inside, all over, spread like a disease. 

_ Métastase. _

~~ What an awful word that was.  ~~

It was a dangerous game, to stay. 

He wondered if Damen felt the same. Did Damen feel the ghost of him even as they remained together? Would he carry that as well or would he let Laurent fade away into a dream, not even a memory?

Was he also terrified? He was leaving  ~~ him ~~ .

_ I could tie him up _ , he thought,  _ I could keep him here in my bedroom in Italy and never let him go.  _ ~~_ Not without me.  _ __ ~~

~~_ Could we not do this again?  _ ~~

What if they stayed in this new version of reality; surrounded by the aroma of fresh blossom, the tender shade of peach? Would that be so bad? 

_ I could keep you. I could claim you.  _

Damen stirred suddenly, and so did Laurent’s heart. Carefully, he placed a hand on Damen’s arm, caressed him up to the shoulder, feeling the scar there. It had healed well. Flesh was so much easier to mend. 

_ Don’t wake up,  _ he begged, pressing a gentle finger onto the whitened line of skin, turning it pink. 

_ Don’t wake up, don’t make me let you go.  _

~~_ Stay with me, have me.  _ ~~

Still in his sleep, Damen snuggled up to him, shifting closer and closer until his head was against Laurent’s chest. Laurent couldn’t do anything but open his arms and hold him, one of his hands moving automatically to touch the crown of dark curls. 

_ Don’t wake up, Damen,  _ he thought, closing his eyes and breathing him in. 

_ Don’t do this to me.  _

He couldn’t go back to Marlas just yet and Damen couldn’t stay in Italy. Their timing, unsurprisingly, was off. It had always been, really. First he was too young, then he was too hurt, too scared, too angry. Now they were together but for a season; the weeks they’d shared nothing more than an intersection of their lanes. 

Eventually, they had to keep going ahead. 

Eventually, just not today. 

Four years ago, Damen was getting ready to tell him he didn’t feel the same way. He was still a child. Sometimes he thought he’d grown up so fast, and then other times like now, laying on his bed trying to memorize every bit of Damen’s extraordinary existence, he would feel it had yet to happen. 

Eyes up to the ceiling in silent questioning. 

_ And now what? _

Taking a breath, he tried to focus on the warmth of Damen’s body on his. How his legs were wrapping themselves around one of Laurent’s. How the city outside his window didn’t know them that well so it didn’t demand anything from either of them yet. If anything, it had only just reunited them.

Quietly, he hummed, trying to remember the words that went with the tune. He tapped Damen’s skin lightly with the rhythm. Then, he sang softly, clearing his still rough voice, “Why do birds suddenly appear, every time you are here? Just like me, they long to be close to you.” 

~~_ Why did you come back to me? Why do I love you so? Why do you have to leave me here?  _ ~~

_ Why do stars fall down from the sky, every time you walk by? Just like me, they long to be close to you. _

Damen made a small sound and his body contracted slightly, coming awake, eyes still closed. “Angel?” he whispered. 

Laurent smiled. And that was the thing about Damen; Laurent’s entire world seemed to come alive on his command. It was like when he’d seen the world through his glasses for the first time; the colours were more vivid, the images neat. Clarity. He rolled his eyes although without any ill feeling, “Silly goose.”

Damen snorted, “Goose?”

“What would you prefer to be?”

“Anything but a goose.” 

“Beggars can’t be choosers.”

“Why did you stop?” Damen whined innocently, and so Laurent resumed petting his hair. 

“Hard to please you are.”

“Look who’s talking.”

“Who kept me awake all night?”

“Who proposed a round two?”

“I was surprised I made it two steps without tripping over my feet, that’s for sure.”

Damen laughed then. He laughed, but not openly as Laurent was used to. This one was more subdued. Oddly shy.  _ For me.  _ “I don’t want to get up.”

“That’s fine, but I can’t feel the lower part of my body.” It’d grown numb under Damen’s weight. He didn’t want to get up either, anyway. He didn’t need anything else but that moment.

That quiet laugh and soft sounds. 

“Well you don’t need that anyway, do you.”

“No, it’s merely an accessory.”

“There we go,” Damen smiled, opening his eyes at last. He looked up at Laurent and said, again, “Angel.”

“Lucifer was an angel too, remember?”

Damen’s smile widened, “Are you here to tempt me, then?”

Laurent winked, “Certo.”

“In any case, I was always weak for you.”

“Finally you admit it.”

“You already had too much leverage over me.”

~~_ Likewise.  _ ~~

“I know every part of you,” Laurent said. 

He’d read a book once where the main character, upon meeting the love of his life, heard the sound of violins. The full string section of an orchestra, announcing along to the bells of his heart: _ it’s her.  _

That was when he was much younger, and he’d thought it was just a silly romantic quote. An exaggeration. Magical realism.

But Laurent could hear them now, the violins. They were clear and sharp and euphonious. If his heart was a melody:  _ It’s him.  _

Damen caressed the inside of his thigh. It made him shiver. “I still need to explore yours a little more.”

“Again?”

“It’s just not enough.”

Laurent smiled. He shifted in his position so he was laying down more than sitting, still in Damen’s arms. “It is not at all.”

They stayed like that for a while; holding each other. They didn’t talk, they didn’t kiss, they didn’t sleep. They just indulged in each other’s company and the sound of their synced heartbeats. 

There were things they had yet to mention. Things both of them had thought of a million times. A door to open. 

But neither of them wanted to be the one to burst their bubble. Neither of them was prepared to voice out the unspoken, give shape to what had been so carefully avoided. 

So they didn’t. 

When Laurent spoke again, unsure of how long it’d passed, his voice was small. He wanted to hide his face on Damen’s neck, press his lips against his scarred shoulder. He wanted so much he was scared of gambling his everything out for nothing. 

“Why do you have to leave?”

Damen didn’t reply immediately. Instead, he simply kissed the top of his head, twirling a strand of hair between his fingers. “You know why,” he whispered.

Laurent closed his eyes then. It felt so much like a sentence his stomach was almost swallowed by a void. Biting his lip, the words in his tongue were,  _ Don’t leave me _ . But he knew the response would be something akin to an apology, and so he desisted. 

“I don’t want you to go.” 

He felt the minute Damen’s hand stopped, and then there were his fingers holding his chin up. Laurent opened his eyes and Damen was waiting for him. He didn’t seem sorry, but whatever emotion was displayed in his face instead, Laurent couldn’t read it. 

He would go back to that moment, he would realize what it meant then and curse himself for not having seen the signs. He would understand, but it would be too late. 

“Let’s not think about that,” Damen said, a thumb caressing his cheek, “We still have today.”

“What about tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow is for our future selves.” Damen kissed him sweetly, “I only care about having you in my arms right now.”

Laurent would think of those words. Of how badly he believed them. How fiercely, how strongly he protected those memories. 

He would wish he had asked better questions. 

Laurent kissed Damen back just as sweetly. He wanted to get lost in the softness of Damen’s skin, give in to the silent requests of his hands. 

“Breakfast?” he asked, once they’d pulled away. 

“More like lunch,” Damen chuckled, pressing their foreheads together.

“I’m going to take a shower,” Laurent said. “There’s coffee and tea in the kitchen. Feel free to grab any food you like.” 

Damen let him go with a nod and one last kiss. Oddly enough, Laurent was tempted to see if the water would wash away the spell. 

He wondered, as he stood under the showerhead, if a little water would suffice to undo the magic of what they’d had. If somehow he would step out and find himself in a muted version of a memory and find Damen sitting on his bed, fully dressed, saying he was sorry.

That he didn’t feel the same way. 

That he understood it all wrong. That this was not what he thought it was. 

It was the beautiful thing about words. The tricky part of it, really. We often say things we don’t mean, but we do mean those we don’t say. 

***

Damen had the intention of making coffee. He thought to prepare a big pot and serve it in two mugs, see if he remembered how Laurent liked to drink his. 

But he got distracted. 

He lingered in the bed for a minute, listening to the sound of water falling from the bathroom across the hall. Suddenly alone, his eyes roamed around the room, coming to find things unexpected.

It shouldn’t have been so rare to him, considering Laurent had been living in Italy for a year now. But somehow it still surprised him how much of Laurent was in that bedroom. There were posters on the walls, piles of books adorning every corner and a tall bookcase that looked one more novella from collapsing. 

The desk had framed pictures and scattered polaroids held in place by clear tape. Postcards from other countries in Europe, some even in America. There was a small potted cactus and trinkets on every shelf and surface. Journals and loose papers on top of Laurent’s closed laptop. Sunglasses, empty mugs, a bottle of water, train tickets. 

In Marlas, Damen remembered Laurent’s room to be pristine and immaculate. There was an order to be followed. Organized to its very core, in spite of being minimalist and simple. It was more boyish, though, in the choice of colours and how the room was furnished, but it was entirely different to this seemingly new unstructured and messy world Laurent had in Italy. 

How could someone go from A to Z in such little time? 

Perhaps he’d changed more than Damen had realized. Perhaps one summer wasn’t enough to relearn the way of Laurent in the world. Perhaps there’d never be enough time to do so. 

Damen walked around, opening and closing books that were almost all in French, some in Spanish. Poetry in Italian. He shook a snow globe with a NYC landmark inside and smiled to himself as he looked over the pictures. 

He hadn’t seen Aimeric in years but recognized him immediately. He was in every picture with Laurent and Nicaise. There was Hennike in another one, standing next to Laurent as he was dressed in his graduation robe from college. 

Auguste was not in any. 

And that’s when he stopped looking, when guilt knocked on his heart. When suddenly he wished he could have been in those pictures too. 

But what he’d done to Laurent was irreparable. What he’d taken from him; not just a brother, but all the things the accident had meant for both of them, couldn’t be retrieved. 

And this is when Damen asked himself if he deserved to have a place at all in Laurent’s life, but he didn’t have an answer for that yet. 

Did that make him a monster? Was he being that selfish? 

The shower stopped running then, and Damen cursed quietly, leaving the frame back in place before making his way back to the bed. When Laurent emerged from the bathroom, he did so fully dressed in loungewear and with his hair dripping. 

Damen gave him a look, “Why are you wearing clothes?”

Laurent smiled, sitting back on the bed next to him, “That’s what civilized people do. You should try it sometime.”

He considered this for a moment, then shook his head, “Don’t think I will.”

He watched Laurent closely then. How his eyes seemed to wander across his face before lowering and landing on his nudity. Damen smiled smugly when he saw the colour rising to Laurent’s cheeks. 

“I’ll make coffee,” Laurent said, almost in a whisper. 

“Can I use your shower, then,” Damen said in the same hushed tone, pulling Laurent closer, “Angel?”

And so what if he was, after all, selfish? 

What if he wanted to be in one of Laurent’s pictures? 

What if? 

***

“Come on, you can have me.”

“I can? I’ve never done...that.”

“Then I’ll be your first and you’ll be mine.”

***

Something Laurent had learnt about anniversaires was that the body remembered even if the mind didn’t. 

In his case, perhaps, his body somatized what his mind blatantly tried to ignore. 

His mother would tell him and Auguste stories like that when they were younger, about how her body felt oddly whenever they had a birthday, as if remembering the pregnancy and labour. 

Auguste would joke about it sometimes, because their mother, although affectionate and playful, wasn’t one to talk absurdities. Ground-to-earth, opposed to their father who, so it seemed, was the stranger of the two. Described as clumsy and dorky and in the clouds. 

It wasn’t pain, his mother had explained one time he’d been curious enough to ask. More like the lingering feeling of a goosebump. A déjà vu, déjà vécu of her muscles. 

Whenever Laurent lived to see another August 18th, he understood exactly what she’d meant. He would shiver in his sleep sometimes only to wake up and feel strangely ill, as if about to break into a fever. 

He would stay still on the bed for a while, then bring a hand to his own head and neck only to find them stiff and cold. He would question his sanity as he kept waiting for a headache that never really started and the symptoms of a flu that he’d never caught. 

At school or work he would feel distracted, unable to grasp thoughts or words. He’d hear people talking but couldn’t remember any of it after a second. He wouldn’t get hungry and so he often forgot to eat and drink. 

It was as if he got lost in a labyrinth inside his own head, unwilling to find his way out. Taking wrong turns, stumbling and tripping and falling then laying on the ground for a decade or so, watching the skies turn blue and gray and black and sometimes pink and orange and red and—

Auguste was dead.

His most beloved person. Most beloved older brother. He died because he was in an accident and hit his head so hard against the front deck of the car that it fractured his skull and he’d bled out of his consciousness. Death had not granted him a second to process, instead just taken him at once and forever. 

Laurent didn’t know how to explain the fact that he felt he couldn’t live without Auguste and yet he’d managed to for the past four years. He got through his days with a constant drum in his chest saying that he couldn’t do it.

That he didn’t want to do it. That he refused to.

But Laurent woke up day after day, and in spite of all the wrongness and defeat and how badly he inflicted pain over himself, he kept on living. 

And that’s why the day after he’d been with Damen, Laurent spent what seemed an eternity curled up in bed at four in the morning with his arms around himself, nails digging deep into his own skin. 

It wasn’t that he didn’t remember every time, because he would always remember. It was never a shock or a surprise to find himself again reliving that cursed summer day. He knew, but he always tried to push the thought away unconsciously, unable to stomach it once more. It didn’t work for long. 

In the end, he wasn’t strong enough not to fall head first onto that pit. 

Another year had passed; Auguste was dead and he was still a mess. And were things ever truly okay? Was he ever really okay? If he allowed himself to think for even just a minute, he’d get a panic attack so better not to. 

And his mother called, because she always called. She needed comfort from the only son she had left, the last quarter of a family plucked apart by fate and tragedy. Aimeric called too, but Laurent never answered, so he texted instead. 

Those were the details of that particular summer day. Just repeating the same sad story every year without the pain ever fading away. It always felt fresh as new, and he imagined himself grabbing a butcher’s knife and opening up his chest like doors to a cupboard. He imagined reaching over, unplugging his own heart from the source then dropping it in the bathtub and washing off the black coloured veil of grief that covered it. 

Leaving it to flat dry next to his cashmere sweaters; delicates. 

Although he could do that, or at least try, Laurent decided not to. Too messy. Too complicated. Instead, he opted for the routine; get up from bed, make coffee, debate whether to swallow one or two of his anxiolytics and then down three, take a shower, get ready, go to work in his Vespa. 

And if he didn’t cry, it was only because the breeze always dried up his eyes. Because the sun was too shiny up above. Because there were people around. Because he had to translate thousands of words from English to French and vice versa. 

Because he had cried for Auguste a million fucking times and it never worked on his favour. In the end, Laurent knew he’d spend the day seeing the ghost of his older brother around like a joke. Hearing his laughter while making copies at the photoprinter. Seeing his face in mirrors. 

And every time, his body would ache so badly, he would think he was back there in the St. Paschal Hospital, hearing Damen say the words. 

When he closed his eyes, he saw nothing but blood and bruised skin. 

He was back to that bathroom that smelled like orange disinfectant, the smell making him gag as he experienced the first panic attack of his life. He was rocking himself back and forth, not knowing what to do, how to make the pain stop, how to put an end to the world. 

_ “There will be a happy ending, Lo.” _

_ Except not for me.  _

_ Not for us.  _

***

His boss’ secretary startled him out of his stupor as he put a hand on his shoulder. Something about a delivery.

Reluctantly, Laurent made his way to the main door of the office and a girl dressed up in motorcycle gear was waiting for him. She asked for his name and then made him sign on a screen before handing him a beautifully presented bouquet. 

White lilies, white roses. 

He felt the collected curiosity of his colleagues right on his back, so he stood there for a moment, facing the door, looking for a note in the usual bold, rushed handwriting. 

_ You shouldn’t be alone today.  _

_ — Damen.  _

Laurent’s lip quivered and he swallowed it down, forcing composure back to his own features. When he turned around, he gave nothing away. 

***

He spent the day dissociating and aware of doing so, which only made it worse. 

The strange thing about disassociating was that it was a coping mechanism his mind used when it couldn’t deal with overwhelming emotions but it didn’t take the pain away at all. He could still recognize pain. A pain so strong he wanted to scream, only he didn’t have the mental energy to do so. 

After hours of being unproductive and hating himself for not being able to snap out of it, Laurent claimed a migraine and left work early. The ride on his Vespa was dreadful, as he had to try and focus twice as hard due to his mind being  _ away _ and the effects of the medication, making him sleepy. 

Avoiding the usual traffic of the peak hour, however, meant that he arrived home faster. To his demise, Damen was waiting by the door of his apartment building. He looked like he had been there for some time, sitting alone by the steps. 

The sight of him brought him back at once, their roles unchanged. Laurent dug his nails into the palm of his hand. He thought,  _ I can’t.  _

Laurent ignored him as he walked up to the door, typing in the code to unlock it. Damen stood up then, took a few steps towards him. He wasn’t wearing his usual work attire, instead in a pair of jeans and flannel over a simple white t-shirt. His eyes were pleading. Laurent thought,  _ I can’t.  _

“Lo, please,” Damen said, “Wait.”

Laurent swallowed. His voice was nothing but a faint string, “Why are you here?”

“Did you get my flowers?”

“I can’t do this, Damen,” he said, avoiding Damen’s eyes, “Not today.”

Damen stopped the door and entered right after him. He reached over to hold his hand, but then didn’t. “Can we…” he started, “Can we not do this together?”

“I’ve never—I’ve always dealt with this day alone.”

“I just never got to tell you how sorry I am.”

“Damen,” Laurent said, his heart beating so fast he could feel it in every vein, “Please, stop. Let’s not do this here. ”

Neither of them said anything more. When Laurent went for the stairs, he climbed a few steps before Damen followed. It was as though there was an invisible monster between them, creating safe distance. 

He took it as a chance to rebuild his walls, regain control of his mind. But it just wasn’t going to work when his breathing was laboured and his neck damped with sweat, product of the arrhythmic echoing of his heart in his chest. 

It wasn’t going to work, his hands were trembling uncontrollably. The walls of his mind were piles of sand, falling apart. 

There was nothing he could use to hide. No one to protect him. 

Once inside the apartment, Laurent felt the urge to fall to his knees. And vomit. And scream. And cry every ounce of grief out of his battered heart. He wanted to lay down on a soft surface and fall asleep and not make it back. 

He offered Damen coffee, instead. 

It was a simple task; fill the bottom part with water, put the filter, add the coffee and close it back up. Place it on the hob, set it to medium fire. 

Wait.

There was a light touch on his back, then gentle hands on his shoulders. Laurent didn’t turn around, but he didn’t pull away either. He closed his eyes, begging the warmth to spread to his own body and ground him. 

“I mean what I said,” Damen whispered, “You shouldn’t be alone. Not today, not any day. I’m probably the last person you want to see right now but—”

Laurent jerked forward then, out of Damen’s hold. He turned around to face him, felt himself break at the devastated look on Damen’s face. He shook his head frantically, “You don’t know, you really don’t know.” 

“What do I not know?”

“What are you apologizing for?”

Damen paused for a second, “The accident.”

“That’s what you don’t know,” he said, “It wasn’t your fault.”

“Lo, I was—”

~~_ Driving. Auguste’s best friend. In the car. Unconscious. Bleeding. Hurt. Driving.  _ ~~

~~_ I was there.  _ ~~

“No.”

“Laurent, please.”

Laurent shook his head again, placed his glasses on his head to rub his face with both hands. “Don’t.”

“I just thought that we should… talk about it.”

“I don’t want to.”

“But I do.”

“Why do we have to go back there?” Laurent snapped, “Why now?”

“Because I missed you. Because we slept together. Because you said you hated me and wanted me dead.”

“I never blamed you for the accident, Damen. I was hurt. Now, just…” a sigh, “Drop it.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want any misunderstandings between us. I don’t want to lose you again, Laurent.”

“You won’t,” Laurent inhaled, “Lose me, that is.” And then, “What do you want me to say, Damen? Yes, I hated you. I hated you so badly I wanted—I wished it had been you and not Auguste. But that’s because losing him was like losing a limb. And I couldn't have you without him as I could never have him without you. So I buried you as well. Are you happy now?”

Damen’s voice was low. It was heartbroken. It was  _ wrong _ . “It’s the only way I could move forward, Laurent, can you blame me?”

Silence. The coffee pot started to brew then. The smell of it filled up the kitchen, but Laurent didn’t turn it off until it was spilling over. 

“It’s just infuriating when you do that,” he muttered.

“What? Be honest?”

“Yes,” voice breaking, throat closing, “When you demand it of me.”

“We never talked about it, I wanted to tell you,” Damen said, “He thought of you. He told me about a song you loved before it happened. He was always talking about you, praising you. He loved you so much, Laurent.”

_ And I loved him, more than anything in this agonizingly cruel world.  _

The tears came at last because they had to. They came in hysterical outbursts and he covered his mouth to stop them, but his body shook with the extertation of the door finally being open. 

It was happening all over again. He was losing Auguste all over again. 

Damen continued. “I'm so sorry about what happened. I should've…” he trailed off, shaking his head, “I can't do anything to fix it now, but you must know that I'll always be sorry.”

And then Laurent just couldn’t hold it in anymore. 

“This wasn’t—” he tried, “I wasn’t—”  _ going to cry.  _

Laurent wanted to push Damen away, to make him stop. Anything that meant he didn’t have to feel this deeply again. But the truth was he didn’t want to be alone anymore. He was so sick of it. 

So when Damen reached for him, Laurent let himself be embraced. He felt Damen’s arms around him, holding him close and it only made him cry harder. 

“It’s okay,” Damen whispered, soothingly, “It’s okay.”

He choked out, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, it’s—”

“About everything.”

Damen quieted then. He looked at Laurent still in his arms. He felt his body shaking. 

“I was so cruel to you,” Laurent said, “I shouldn’t have. I said such horrible things. But none of it brought me Auguste back.” 

“Laurent, no, please. Don’t cry. I was never upset about that. I’m so sorry you lost your brother. I’m so sorry I couldn’t stop it.”

“Don’t lie to me,”  _ Tell me no lies. _ “Don’t lie,”  _ Just hold me close.  _ “I remember the way you looked at me and I didn’t do anything. I just pushed you away.”

_ I saw how much you needed me. I left you alone.  _

“You were just a kid,” Damen whispered, and when he blinked, a pair of teardrops ran down his cheeks. It was such a perfect moment, the true portrayal of a wrecking feeling, Laurent thought it belonged in a museum. 

A lachrymosa. 

He should have said a little prayer. 

“I was old enough to know better.”

“I was too.”

“And now,” Laurent said, cleaning his face with his sleeves, “Now you’re leaving me.”

“I’m sorry,”  ~~_ Love means never having to say you’re sorry, _ ~~ “I wish we had more time. I don’t want to leave you like this, not again.”

_ Then don’t leave me like this, again. _ It was such a simple thing to do. So much to ask for in such few words. That was the thing about seasons. Not everything survives to see the next one. 

_ Do you love me? _

_ Will you wait for me?  _

_ What are we?  _

“What about tomorrow?” Laurent said, finally, “Will you still love me tomorrow?” 

Damen gave him a small smile then, wiped Laurent’s tears away with his thumbs, “Forever and ever, babe.”

He couldn’t help the shaky laugh that escaped him, he couldn’t help but give up and wrap his arms around Damen, holding him as tightly as humanly possible. 

_ But do you love me? _

_ Do you love me? _

_ Do you love me? _

_ Do you love me? _

_ *** _

“Take some flowers to Auguste for me. You know about them more than I do, and you know what he liked.”

***

Laurent didn’t do goodbyes. 

He hadn’t said the word out loud in years, always opting for idioms or expressions. In romance languages, though, there were many words for a farewell, but he liked the ones that were more or a self-contained phrase. They were always wrongly translated as ‘goodbye’ for lack of a better word to express the entire meaning, but after studying all three languages closely, Laurent felt they were more of a promise than an adieu.

_ Hasta luego _ : “until later”

_ Au revoir: _ “until the reseeing”

_ Arrivederci: _ “to see each other of us again”

Damen left on August the 19th. He had to go back to Marlas; meet new clients, sign more deals, continue to be the corporate puppet of his father. There was nothing Laurent could do to hold him back, but he went to the airport anyway. 

To hold his hand and kiss him one more time. 

~~_ But do you love me?  _ ~~

It was a windy rainy day. When it rained in Italy, it poured. Perhaps the weather gods aligned to his mood, a sign of understanding. 

They walked around in the airport for a little while because they’d been there too early. Had breakfast together, although Laurent couldn’t eat much against the lump in his throat. He helped Damen pick a few extra souvenirs for his family; biscuits and chocolates mostly, but also a small leather purse for his mom. 

“I’m sure she’ll love it,” Laurent said smiling, brushing his hair behind his ear. 

“I hope so,” Damen smiled, too, kissing Laurent’s hand sweetly. 

Charming details of a charming man with the power to pulverize his heart. 

“You should visit my mom,” he said, eyeing a pair of smooth leather gloves, “She always loved you.”

“You think?”

“Yes, and you should visit Tiny too,” and with a smile, “Even though she hates you.”

“Believe me, it is mutual.”

“Do you like these?” Laurent asked, handing him one of the gloves. “They suit you, I think.”

Nodding, “They’re very soft.”

“It’s almost Fall in Marlas. I’ll buy them for you.”

“That’s very generous, but I don’t really need them.”

A shrug, “I just want to give you something to remember me.”

“Give me a kiss,” Damen said, grinning, “I like those better.”

Laurent kissed him chastely, “You can have both.” 

After shopping, Damen got himself a coffee that they passed back and forth until the paper cup was empty, and they sat down to wait for a bit more. Laurent rested his head on Damen’s shoulder, and Damen whispered bad jokes to make him laugh. It worked ninety percent of the time. 

The other ten percent, he was just wondering how to rewind back time. Every time something good ended, Laurent was torn between sadness and hatred. Wanting to set back the clocks and either avoid it altogether or just live it all over again. 

He hated change. He was out of balance now, and he knew he would be for a while. 

~~_ But do you love me? _ ~~

As time went by, the dread made a nest of itself in Laurent’s stomach. He looked up to find Damen’s eyes and then got the prickliness that came with wanting to cry. It shouldn’t pain him this much, now, should it? Why did he always feel things too intensely? More than anyone else he knew?

Why did he have to be the one to suffer?

“Lo, come on,” Damen said, a hand petting his hair, “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you'll kidnap me just so I won't leave.”

Laurent frowned, felt himself pouting, “Maybe I will.”

“Maybe I'll let you.”

“Your timing was off. You should have come later next year.”

“I tried. But turns out I miscalculated the dates in the time machine.”

He clicked his tongue, rolled his eyes to Damen’s amusement, “Amateur.”

Damen kissed his cheek, and then let out a sigh as he checked his watch, “I should go now.”

Laurent nodded. His heart sank. He’d survived yet another summer, another lover. Shouldn’t he be happy this all happened? Shouldn’t he be hopeful? 

They walked hand in hand in silence, and Laurent squeezed Damen’s before he had to let go. “Have a safe flight,” he said at last, voice small as they stood in front of the queue to get through security. 

Damen hummed. He brushed Laurent’s stubborn curl away from his face, “I’ll call you when I land.”

He smiled a little, stood on his toes to peck Damen’s lips. “We’ll meet again,” he said, passing the carousel box over. “Take care of her, I’ll come back to get her.” 

_ And you.  _

“I will,” Damen promised, kissed him back, “Take care, Lo.”

Damen didn’t say the word either, and for that Laurent was grateful, although he never mentioned it. He watched Damen get through security, waved him one last time before he disappeared behind the automatic clear doors. 

He didn’t stay to see the plane take off. Instead, he heard the sound of it as he sat stuck in traffic inside a cab back to his place. 

Inside the box, however, Laurent left a note. A small pink post-it that he’d stuck to the bottom. Something he was hopeful would never be found, but if it did, if it had to be, then at least he would have said it.

Then at least, he was sure Damen would know. 

_ If we don’t talk again, remember I love you.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello. I wasn't planning on posting this today, but somehow I feel like I should. Even though it's not good enough, even though it's full of mistakes and imperfections. 
> 
> I posted a little [PSA](http://princesgambit.co.vu/post/637713544519024640/psa-on-linger) on my tumblr the other day regarding updates to this fic. You know how proud I was on keeping a schedule and how hard I was trying, mostly because it made me happy to do so. Now, the universe doesn't like me very much and so I'm going through a nightmare. I don't know when I'll wake up -- I hope it'll be soon. Until I do, until I can breathe and feel like life is actually worth living, this is the last full chapter, possibly until the new year. 
> 
> This is the end of the Italy sub-arc which I had a blast brainstorming and writing. Some aspects of this chapter have been written and awaiting their time to shine since May of this year. I'm glad we made it, in a sort of 'All roads lead to Rome' kind of way. I know it's not the best I could give you, but I tried my damn best so I hope it's at least enjoyable somehow. 
> 
> Next weekend, there'll be an update: it's a side chapter that has also been waiting for a good while. It's roughly 3k or so, which is not long but it's one of my favourites and it means a lot to the story. So that's something to look forward to. 
> 
> Big thank you to Lyss for editing and demon-friend and Ellen for their help as always. Lots of love and infinite thank you's to Blue and Maca for being so sweet while I'm going through hell. Also to everyone else who has reached out to me somehow: thank you, you have no idea how much it means to me. And to all of you who read me <3
> 
> "Why do birds suddenly appear / Every time you are near? / Just like me, they long to be / Close to you / Why do stars fall down from the sky / Every time you walk by? / Just like me, they long to be / Close to you" lyrics taken from [(They Long to Be) Close to You](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jV127kNz0hs) by The Carpenters.
> 
> "Hey kid, good morning / You look like an angel." lyrics taken from [Nobody Needs to Know](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_JIeSCrW_s4) from the musical The Last Five Years. 
> 
> "Love means never having to say you’re sorry." quote taken from the film Love Story.
> 
> Hope you have a nice holiday if you celebrate it, and if not, then just happy happy days.


	20. Act II: Chapter 7.5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Side chapter from Laurent's POV.
> 
> "Auguste, what would I do without you?"

In the weeks and months that followed Aguste’s death, Laurent became sleepless. 

Once both insomnia and exhaustion had digged their nails into his flesh, it was over for him. There was nothing he could do but agonizingly stare at the ceiling in a state of lethargy that never became rest and frail alarm that wouldn’t turn into awakeness. 

It was a similar contradiction to becoming a living zombie. 

He was trapped in a vicious cycle of being too tired to do anything but not being able to sleep without medication. And said medication had been taken away by his mother, for fear of inducing him not just longed-for rest but also an addiction. 

Any addiction would be better than this, he thought. He’d gladly beat himself up against the mirror in his bedroom or throw himself down stairs to be taken to the emergency room and be given some sweet pills. If it sounded crazy enough as it was, imagining it felt like a humourless joke he couldn’t shake off. Another intrusive thought of the many he had been getting lately. 

Any addiction would be better than waking up to a life without Auguste. 

Laurent would gladly take on any vice if it meant having his brother back, but he couldn’t even get up from his bed without wanting to both scream and vomit. There was no calm inside him anymore, only horrid hours of hyperfixation on single thoughts until his brain was useless and the migraines that came after. 

Anxiety was eating him alive slowly. When the nights were quiet, he thought he could hear it chewing at his organs and it repulsed him, the imaginary created by all this fear he couldn’t control. It brought him to tears until he was heaving for air in the fetal position, covered by mountains of blankets. 

Wanting to breathe so desperately, to make those sounds inside his head stop, but not being willing to pull down the blankets. Was there a worse thing than fighting an invisible monster? He was so deeply aware of it, but still couldn’t win. He heard it coming and only let it be.

All he could actually do was let the tears roll and hold the carousel box to his heart until the freezing metal was as warm as his desire to end it all. 

_ A monster is crying,  _ he’d think.  _ Still crying, still crying, still crying.  _

Panic attacks had never been a thing in his life until the night Auguste died. They came when he left and decided to stay. In the rare occasions where he’d start to doze, he’d hear a bang, a crash, Auguste’s voice calling for help, and he’d sit on the bed with his heart about to leap from his throat, trying, uselessly, to find his brother in the dark.

To save him. 

It was so cruel, the mind.  _ His _ mind. Why? 

Sleepless Laurent, completely drained and empty but with echoes; a bad note resonating in every corner of him. 

Brotherless Laurent. 

Useless Laurent. 

_ Ungrateful.  _

He had done some unforgivable things to the people he loved out of anger and pain. Obviously, he’d have to inflict some of that onto himself. 

Of course.

_ Repent.  _

It was another one of those nights, all very similar to the last, identical to the next, unchanging and unbearable. It was hot, but not as much as before, for summer was ending. The clocks kept marching forward, taking with them all the magic hours of his childhood. Another season died, bleeding into the next one. Laurent, as he had been, also died, and he was quietly, tearfully bleeding into another one. 

A new version of himself who didn’t have a father or a brother or a Damen. Or a game. Or a good head and a big mouth. He had no wishes or dreams or smiles. He’d run out. 

He should have been packing, getting ready for college. There was still time, Aimeric had told him, he couldn’t remember when exactly. Yesterday? A week ago? Two weeks? 

It didn’t matter. He wouldn’t go. He’d give up on that too, as he’d given up on eating or sleeping or keeping himself alive. 

Why did it hurt so much to be alive? 

It was again, the fifth night in a row without sleeping. His mom had coaxed him into drinking a cup of tea in the evening, almost taking a bite off a sandwich she’d prepared. But solid foods made his stomach hurt, and although knowing it would just make things harder in the long run, he still avoided them whatsoever. 

But the tea had something, he could tell now. The cloud in his head dissipated and he felt light-headed almost, without such perennial gloominess over him. He tried to reach over to his night stand to read the clock, but he couldn’t coordinate very well. 

_ Oh, maybe this is how I go.  _

A ridiculous thought of a suffering boy. When the darkness came for him, Laurent didn’t put up any resistance. Willingly, he went. 

_ Auguste, _ he thought,  _ I need you.  _

He called for him pleadingly, as every day. He called for him because there was no one else to wish for. 

Didn’t they say, in catholicism, something about a single word healing it all? Couldn’t it be the same for him? A word of his brother and then—

“Laurent,”  _ Auguste _ , “I’m here, Laurent.”  _ It’s Auguste.  _

When he opened his eyes, it was Auguste’s face he saw. His older brother lay on his side, facing him. Auguste smiled sweetly, as he always used to do, and caressed his arm softly. He said, “You’re tired. You should sleep.”

“Auguste,” it came out more like a whimper than an actual word, “You came.”

“I’ve never left your side, Lo. I’m always here next to you.”

“You left me here,” Laurent cried. It was ugly, the sobs came out faster than words, “Why? If you were going to leave like that, why didn’t you take me with you?”

Auguste cleaned the tears off his face, he put a hand on his head and combed his hair back. It felt real. It was warm and human and  _ real _ . 

Which meant it wasn’t true. Which meant he was—

“I’m so sorry,” Auguste said, “I never meant to leave you like this, but you have to be strong now, okay? You have to take care of yourself.”

Laurent shook his head. He didn’t want to. He didn’t want anything except having his protector back and that wasn’t happening. So what was the whole point of it? 

“Please,” Auguste whispered, kissing his head, “Now you need to sleep. It’s late.”

“Don’t go.”

“It’s late, baby bro.”

“Stay, please.”

“The wind also blows tomorrow.” 

“Auguste—”

But when Laurent reached for him, he couldn’t. He was gone. And he jolted awake in tears. 

The light seeping through the curtains confirmed what he suspected; it was dawn. He had slept.

***

He needed to see Auguste again. It was that simple. 

He couldn’t let go of that dream. That fantasy, whatever it was, he wanted more of it. Whatever he could get, he’d take it in like an addict. 

_ Deplorable.  _

_ Revolting.  _

_ A child. An irresponsible child. Selfish child.  _

Laurent spent hours and hours in Auguste’s bedroom, trying to find him in any lingering speck of dust, in any aroma clinging to his clothes, the last touch left in each of his belongings. He tried to find him in every lost corner of the house. In any mirror, any body of water. 

If he could only see him again. Even just once. 

One more word. 

He set himself up when he decided to watch all those old home-videos from when he was an infant. When his father was alive and well and Auguste was a child in love with the sound of laughter. 

It tore him apart. 

The photo albums, the graduation pictures, the family holidays, the recordings of Auguste teaching him how to play the kalimba and how Laurent could never do it and sing at the same time. 

The days were a journey back to both a person he’d never be again and the one whom he’ll spend his life missing dearly. It wasn’t healthy, none of this was. He knew he was making his mom sick with worry. He knew Auguste would have been reprimanding him. 

He knew he had to let go. Only, he couldn’t. He didn’t want to. He refused to, with every beat of his heart. 

A few days later, Auguste visited him again. 

He showed up in quiet dreams, close to the break of dawn. He touched his face, told him how much he loved him. 

All Laurent ever did was cry and ask him why.  _ Why did this happen, why did I let you go that night, why didn’t I make you stay with me, why did I lie to you, why did I push you away.  _

_ Why did you have to die when I need you so badly? _

When Auguste was the light that kept his own darkness at bay?

“Don’t cry,” Auguste said, pressing their foreheads together, “Lo, my little Laurent, please don’t cry anymore.”

“I miss you so much,” Laurent whispered, trying to keep Auguste close.  _ Linger, please linger.  _ “It hurts. I think of you every second of everyday.” 

“I think of you too,” Auguste whispered, holding him, loving him, “I miss you too. But I’m okay where I am now. I’m safe and I’m not in pain and all I want is for you to also be safe, and to be happy again.”

“I can’t ever be happy. Not without you.”

Sadly, “Don’t say that,” and then, pulling away, their eyes met, “There will be a happy ending, Lo.”

Laurent looked at him not understanding or not wanting to. He didn’t know how Auguste could say such things to him, as if his lamenting could be diminished. 

There wouldn’t be any happy ending. Of that he was absolutely sure. 

“How can you know that?” he asked, his voice still breaking. 

“Because I’ve seen your heart,” Auguste said, “And it is beautiful.”

***

Sleepless became dreamless. 

He slept, but no dreams came. Auguste didn’t answer his pleading anymore. He had lost him again. 

Laurent would wake up feeling not exhausted but betrayed. And it didn’t make any sense, but he knew that the only way of seeing Auguste was not sleeping again. 

Talk to the empty, as if someone could hear and reply. Stare at the ceilings, unblinking, waiting for the dizziness and the headaches to start. Sometimes, he played the kalimba, gently pressing his thumbs on the tines and singing softly. 

_ Who said that every wish would be heard and answered _

_ When wished on the morningstar? _

He only knew one song, mostly by muscle memory. It was the only piece Auguste had managed to teach him. The one song his dad would sing for them almost every night. 

The sound was childish, like a music box. It felt melancholic in a way that made it all wrong, for he wasn’t a child anymore and the people he loved kept dying around him like withering flowers. 

And rainbows didn’t show up in the sky, and if they did, then he was colourblind. And maybe he hadn’t loved those people properly like he wasn’t loving his mom or his friends or — Damen. 

Music, he thought, what a lovely and terrifying thing to exist. How easy was it to become vulnerable with a song. How easy to remember, how the sentiments stayed in the notes long after the composer has had their time. 

_ What's so amazing that keeps us stargazing _

_ And what do we think we might see? _

Perhaps, he thought, hiccups sending shivers all over, in his next life he’d be a musician. After all, he was running out of tears to cry and games to play. 

Perhaps, if he found Auguste there too, he’d learn more songs. He’d be more attentive, more grateful, less rebellious. 

When the song was over, he played it again, fighting off sleep until gradually, exhaustion reigned over. He had gone from praying for sleep to inducing it and then depriving himself from it, but it would be the last time he’d see his brother in his dreams. 

At least for a while. 

This time, Auguste wasn’t smiling. 

He didn’t reach out to touch him, and Laurent refrained himself from doing so out of fear of waking up. For a while, they only gazed at each other, and that was more than enough. He didn’t care if Auguste was upset; he’d been upset many times before over the silly things that got Laurent in trouble throughout the years. 

It didn’t matter. He just needed him close. Just there.

_ Just stay here with me.  _

“You’re hurting yourself,” Auguste said finally. His blue eyes had always been a reflection of his own, but now they seemed faded, like an old photograph. The way his dad always looked like in his memories. “You know what you’re doing and it’s not the way, Laurent. You’re making things worse.”

“I don’t care.”

Auguste smiled fondly, bopped his nose with a finger. “You can’t keep doing this, little brother.”

“I need you here with me.”

“I’ll always be there with you, even if you can’t see me.”

“Gus, please stay. I’ll do anything. I’ll be good. I’ll stop getting in trouble, I will be good to mom, I won’t make her worry anymore.”

“I know you will,” Auguste said, taking his hands, fingers linked together, “Do you trust me?”

Undoubtedly, “I do.”

“There will be a happy ending.”

“I don’t want to say goodbye to you.”

“You don’t have to. Just remember me and how much I love you.”

“Will you remember me?” 

“Always.” And then, “What would I ever do without you, little being?”

_ Little being.  _

Laurent clinged to his brother, knowing it was a goodbye. Knowing that no matter how many times he’d try to find his way back to him, he’d never find it again. He had been granted this, somehow, and so he’d have to make do. 

_ To this dream, please linger. _

_ To this moment, last a little longer.  _

To himself, the better side _ , don’t fall apart.  _

It was not until he was hiding his face against his brother’s chest that he realized Auguste was also crying. The tears fell like pearls on Laurent’s head, and he felt the weight of them pressing onto his heart. 

“Have you been half asleep and have you heard voices?” Auguste sang sweetly, rubbing his back comfortingly, “I've heard them calling my name.” 

When Laurent woke again, it was the afternoon. For a while, he didn’t move, he just stayed there, breathing and existing in a calm that didn’t seem his own. 

His lips moved without him even thinking of it, and the tears followed suit, because they had to. 

Because Auguste was gone and he was alone. Wrecked and heartbroken, he sang, recalling the gentle touch of Auguste’s on his hair. His voice came out quietly, barely a string,  _ “ _ Someday we’ll find it, the rainbow connection. _ ”  _

_ The lovers, the dreamers, and me. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Who said that every wish would be heard and answered / When wished on the morningstar?" & "What's so amazing that keeps us stargazing / And what do we think we might see?" & "Have you been half asleep and have you heard voices? / I've heard them calling my name" & "Someday we’ll find it, the rainbow connection / The lovers, the dreamers, and me." lyrics taken from [Rainbow Connection](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JTEXY3aytn4) originally written by Paul Williams, covered by Sleeping At Last. 
> 
> Happy Holidays and a Happy New Year to whoever still reads this story. Thank you for being wonderful and for giving me the only moments of joy I had in 2020. Take care<3


	21. Act II: Chapter 18

***

Sometimes creating a memory is like taking a picture.

The flash — a blink of the eye. And it’s saved forever.

Sometimes we remember little things, useless things, for seemingly no reason. And then we scavenge our mind trying to find all the most important things, those we cannot place between all the rest.

It might be the time of day, it might be the colours of the sky or a set of emotions squeezing one’s heart until it’s buried within our chests. Whatever it is, the mystery of why we live, leaves an imprint.

Twenty years might pass and you’ll still remember how the city looked from inside the carriages of a train on a random Tuesday in 2013. And it won’t just be a general feeling; rather, you’ll see it all. You’ll find yourself watching the snow from the spaces of your new life, and suddenly you’ll be back to that summer.

To that window.

To that aspect of yourself.

And it will hurt, but you won’t know why. No one knows why.

I hope that his are all of me. I hope he’s been marked by me. I hope he forgets about me, and that I remain on the tip of his tongue, back of his mind. And that when he tries to pull me back from the dark, the image of me might disappear. Gone, vanished mid-air.

I hope he tastes my name in the bitterness of his loss. I hope he finds only my footprints.

I hope he misses me without knowing it is me he misses.

And that he never gets to remember. 

***

Relief washed in sweat. Like a massive salty wave in the ocean, pushing him back to the sand. 

He always went unbearably cold when he was nervous. His hands became ice floes, stiff as dead. His body succumbed to awful seemingly-internal spasms that were only perceptible to himself. 

But relief was warm, so warm, like sunlight casting directly over him. 

Laurent stepped out of the publishing house dizzy with it, clutching his satchel as if his complete composure depended on it. For a second he was so lost, he had forgotten from which way he’d come from. He looked around from left to right a total of three times before he gained some sense of direction. 

It was such a strange feeling; not being able to discern whether he was happy or terribly sad or angry or scared. He had no idea what to expect from now on, and wasn’t that terrifying in a hopeful way? 

Don’t be much of a dreamer, Laurent but don’t be so much of a pessimist either. Take it as it comes, Laurent. 

_Breathe, Laurent._

He did. He breathed and the chilly air made him shiver. Around him, Marlas shone bright and colourful like the sun through a diamond. Ever since he’d come back he had _mourned_ at how much had changed in two years. 

How suddenly there were new office buildings, new shops, one new of everything. He could swear there were more people than before. They came from all places and went in all directions. Every small corner of the city was stuffed with _things_ and _someones_. 

Could he appreciate something, somewhere and yet still hate every second, every inch of it? 

From the moment he’d set foot outside of the plane, he’d felt as though he was in a dream; where everything looked both strangely familiar and uncharacteristically foreign. It was the sense of knowing and _belonging_ without quite understanding why, only that it was a fact, like the sky was blue and the grass was green. He recognized each street, each monument, the accent, the flow of the people. 

But the city had grown without him. Expanded its horizons without leaving a proper space for him. Sure, he _belonged_ , but where exactly? 

It often happened in big cities. You made a space for you, almost fought for it. And when the universe threatened to close it, you opened it back up with blood, sweat and tears. Because everyone wants to make it. 

And so, it turned out, life wasn’t like the movies.

It wasn’t a beautiful opening scene with skyscrapers and the romanization of the otherwise chaotic quotidian. It wasn’t a meet-cute or what followed a successful one. The characters weren’t presented as heroes or villains and there was no force of destiny making them clash.

Life wasn’t a movie. But movies imitated life. They were born from stories and stories were born from windows in crowded cities and abandoned drinks in Soho bars. 

They were born from long minutes spent waiting and dreaming and wanting. ~~And falling and yearning and bleeding.~~

Laurent had been waiting now for a while, for the day where he’d have to inevitably come back to Marlas. Root of his nightmares, city of dreams. So many of those, it seemed to be suffocating in broken hearts. 

It was an early morning of splendid sunshine after heavy rain, with the birds chirping and droplets still falling off sepia-coloured leaves. 

He’d had an interview to become an editor in one of the biggest publishing houses in the country. He didn’t notice the pull of his strings. Didn’t feel the drift of direction his life was about to take. But we did. 

With one last look at the building, Laurent set off, walking downtown, unaware of the people that blatantly stared or subtly watched him as if he was in a film. He put on his headphones, blocking the sounds of the world, finding a perfect melody for the announcement of autumn.

_Oh, my life is changing everyday_

_In every possible way_

What if he didn’t get the job?

_And oh, my dreams_

_It's never quite as it seems_

_Never quite as it seems._

Even worse, what if he _did_ get the job? 

He was never honestly and truly prepared for change. Change threw one’s life out of balance, and for someone like Laurent, who depended so much on emotional anchors, it was a nightmare. 

He’d moved back across the pond and half of his things hadn’t yet arrived as they had been delayed and stranded somewhere in Spain. ( ~~What did Spain even have to do on a Italy-to-Delpha route?~~ ) He was living with his mom for the time being and it was a three hundred and sixty degrees change in terms of roommates. 

Everyone spoke English and it was surprisingly even more exhausting because it meant he understood everything and his mind wasn’t allowed to disconnect as often. 

So he was tired already and he hadn’t even begun. 

But.

What Laurent didn’t know was that there was a script to a life, there was a way. For every small choice, every small decision he’d taken had brought him to this point. There were key moments and side-characters and plotlines, but he was the center of it all. 

_I want more, impossible to ignore_

_Impossible to ignore_

He was twenty-four years old. He was going to become an editor. He was going to build up a life of his own. He was going to shine and burn and crash. 

_And they'll come true._

He was going to do everything at once. 

_And they'll come true._

It was the beauty of the unknown. The moment right before the chorus as one listened to a song for the very first time. 

_Impossible not to do_

_Impossible not to do_

If every ending was a new beginning, then this was the moment it all started. 

Laurent de Vere took the tram when it came, sat down at the window and waited for his life to change. He watched the river, looked as the sun hit the walls of the ancient monuments of his people. The parliament building, the castle of Marlas, the bastion. The contrast of past and present startling, somewhat even ugly. 

_And now I tell you openly_

_You have my heart, so don't hurt me_

Before he knew it, he was smiling.

***

The bell over the door rang as he entered, then again as the door closed behind him. The warmth welcomed him immediately, as well as the smell of coffee beans and sweetbread. 

Aimeric’s bakery, although situated in a ‘trendy’ district across the river, was less crowded than usual. Mid-morning on a weekday meant he could easily grab a table by the window and not wait over ten minutes for a cup of coffee. No sleep-deprived university students or impatient business men queuing by the door like their lives depended on it. 

He scanned the place as he’d done the first day he’d entered, still mesmerized by how neat, how posh it was. How much like Aimeric. Industrial yet cozy looking, with wooden benches and stools by one side of the windows. The fresh bread was kept in baskets behind the counter, underneath the blackboards with the menu written in cursive. The display cases were filled with tarts and cakes and sandwiches. 

He’d been so anxious over the interview he’d decided to starve and swallow down the acid coming back up from his stomach. Now that it was over, he was hungry and mentally drained. 

Anna, the girl at the till, smiled at him as he walked to the counter. He ordered a cappuccino and waited as she disappeared through the kitchen door. A few minutes later, she came back with Aimeric behind her, dressed in his pristine white chef uniform and carrying a tray with a red cup on a saucer. 

“You have good timing,” Aimeric said, placing the tray on the table and gesturing at four miniature pastries lined-up on a plate next to the coffee, “These are all small versions of the desserts I’m working on. I need your help to pick one for our autumn menu.” 

Laurent eyed them all for a second, each prettier than the last. He took what looked to be cheesecake and ate it in two bites, “Please keep spoiling me with food.”

Sitting across from him, Aimeric said, “How was the interview?”

He sighed. He chewed and swallowed and sighed, “I think,” _honestly_? Bringing the cup to his lips, he took a small sip before saying, “They hated me.”

“Sounds about right then.”

Aimeric gave Laurent a cheeky smile when this one laughed, dropping his head forward, unable to hide his smile as he reached for the second pastry. It seemed to be a tart and smelled strongly of cinnamon. “They probably think I'm too young and inexperienced.”

“But you're a book nerd. They are book nerds so if they don't see your talent then they are just dumb.”

Aimeric said it all very casually. As if Laurent was fuzzing over hot water. He wondered, oddly, how it was that he seemed to have that much confidence only when it wasn’t directly about himself. As if Aimeric’s self-degradation was something entirely conditional to that fact, and he didn’t even realize. 

Was he the same? Perhaps everyone was. 

“That’s easy to say,” he said quietly, eyes down to the spoon making waves on the foam of his coffee, “It’s not the only publishing house in the country.”

~~It’s just the one I like. The one I want.~~

~~With a huge department solely for new adult fiction and translations of foreign titles. In a huge fifty stories building in the centre close to the riverside.~~

~~LGBTQ+ friendly that allows dogs and gives out unlimited free coffee and snacks and that gives you a parking space and a gym discount and private health care and paid sick leave and—~~

He could keep looking. 

“I trust you'll find your place, Lo. Even if it's not there.”

That was the thing, though. What if there was no such place? Aimeric had been driven towards becoming a pastry chef since high school and maybe even way before that. Nicaise had the wits of someone made to save lives or build rocketships and yet he’d decided to follow the easier path of simply being rich for the sake of it. 

Whether they could both be suited for different things entirely, they’d never doubted their own choices. Laurent, on the other hand, had chosen to be a linguist because he didn’t know what else could hold his attention long enough to get a career out of it. And he hated journalism. 

Funny enough, he’d discovered along the way that he could be a translator and right after he’d stumbled over the possibility of becoming an editor too, like his father. 

What is it what he truly wanted, though? Could he even feel that strongly about a job? Like Aimeric who endured three years of business school to please his family before finally investing in what he actually wanted. 

Probably not. He only ever felt strongly about the wrong things. 

“I ate those too fast,” he sighed, although he still reached over to pick what Aimeric explained was cake covered in a bright drop of pumpkin spice mousse. 

“Take your time.”

They went quiet for a minute, the only sound that of the music humming in the background and Anna re-arranging the clean glasses on the shelves. Aimeric said something to her, about taking one of the sandwiches in the display and warming it up. Apparently he hadn’t yet eaten. 

“You look tired,” Laurent said. He’d looked so too the day they arrived back from Italy, although it’d been soon replaced by relief. When Aimeric hugged him at the airport, it felt as though they had been both holding their breaths for too long, and finally they got to exhale. It suddenly landed on Laurent how badly he’d missed him. 

And then, as the days drew out, he also noticed how Aimeric’s well-being seemed to be deteriorating. Physically, he was working himself to shreds in the shop. Emotionally, he was holding onto planning Jord’s wedding as if his own sanity was but a bump in the road. 

“It’s actually not too bad today,” Aimeric said, rubbing his eyes. The bags underneath looked more swollen, considerably darker. “The shop is quiet. Yesterday alone I had ten orders of birthday cakes.” 

“Have you even slept?”

Shrugging, “A few hours.”

Laurent decided to push. “How are things for the wedding? I talked to Jord yesterday but not long.”

Aimeric sighed, pulled playfully at one of his own curls. In a small voice, he said, “I don’t even know.”

“The date's getting closer.”

“It’s getting harder and harder to,” he looked down, closed his eyes briefly, “be around them.”

“You should take a break,” Laurent said, “We can do something, maybe. After I move.”

Aimeric seemed to brighten at that, “You’re looking at places today aren’t you?” 

“Oh yes, I have the whole afternoon booked in to see apartments with Nicaise.”

“Sounds fun.”

“Listening to Nic yell at real estate agents? Delightful.”

“It’s better than doing it all on your own though.”

“I know. I don't even know where I would've started.”

“With a mental breakdown for sure.”

“Definitely.”

To that, they smiled. A complicit smile, the ones they shared all the time through high school and less frequently at college. Slowly, they chuckled, growing into proper laughter, and it was relieving like rain after drought. 

They resumed eating — Aimeric biting into the sandwich and taking notes to improve his own bagel recipe, while Laurent finished the last of the pastries and asked for an espresso, mildly disappointed when it didn’t have that Italian kick to it. It seemed like after living in Italy, all the coffee in Marlas lacked _something_ significant that he still couldn’t place. 

“So? Which pastry did you like most?”

...

“All of them.”

Aimeric gave him a look, “Please be more objective.”

“You’ll need to bring out more,” Laurent said, “I need to _really_ taste them.”

Silence.

“Fine,” he rolled his eyes, licking his thumb, “The berry mont blanc is the best. Can I have more?”

“Good boy,” his friend said happily, patting his head like one would a dog, “Of course you can.”

They were interrupted, however, by the echoing sound of a plate landing harshly on the counter. Turning to see Anna, they saw her pale, muttering something to herself before the door swung open — Nicaise walking in under a coat too thick for the season and a friendless look on his face. 

His eyes roamed about the shop until he found them, and he walked slowly to them as the villain of a movie. The girl left the counter and approached the table as soon as he sat down, asking about his order. 

“English breakfast, no sugar, splash of milk and you better do it properly.”

To that, Aimeric leaned back and smiled at her, “Please don't do it properly, Anna.”

Anna, however, nodded franctly, “Yes, sir.” And left, whispering words in another language. Laurent picked up a few of them — Spanish accent, _‘Conceited bastard.’_

The corners of his mouth twitched up and he suppressed the smile, “Stop terrorizing the girl, she'll spit on your food.”

Aimeric agreed, “Or worse.”

“She won't if she wants a tip,” Nicaise said, matter-of-factly. 

“Fine, I'll spit on it myself.”

Nicaise rolled his eyes, “Aimeric, I’ve told you before to hire more competent people.”

“You’re seriously a dickhead,” Laurent added, finishing the last of his coffee. 

“That might be so, but if you want to be relevant you need to rise to the occasion.”

“You can talk to my publicist about relevance,” Aimeric said, earning a smile from Laurent. Aimeric hated his publicist. 

“Can I?”

Cheerly, “Nope.”

Laurent raised to his feet, Aimeric following and walking behind the counter. “We should get going.”

Nicaise watched him, yet remained seated, “Wait, Helen hasn't made my tea yet.”

“Anna.”

“Whatever, Mary Sue.”

“We're gonna be late.”

“No, we're not, it's my agent and he can wait for as long as I say.” 

Laurent pulled on a strand of Nicaise’s hair, hard, “Don't be a brat, let's go.”

Hitting his hand away, Nicaise yelled, “Anna, make it to go, someone’s in a hurry.”

Anna, the girl in question, transferred everything in a to go cup as fast as lightning and handed it hurriedly, then retreated back to her place next to Aimeric behind the counter. 

Nicaise rose slowly, sipping on his tea as he did so, “Adequate. Here you go,” he said, handing a hundred dollar bill to a clearly anxious Anna. The girl’s eyes went big as plates and she took the bill fast, rolling it up and hiding it somewhere in her uniform. 

Before they left, Aimeric handed them a bag full of croissants and pain au chocolat from the display. More people started to come into the shop, as it was closer to lunch time. 

“For the trip,” Aimeric smiled, then winked, “Good luck.”

***

It actually took them three days to find a place. 

The first ones they had seen were all too big, too expensive. Too ostentatious for what Laurent actually wanted. Then they simply weren’t in the right areas, or had poor natural light. 

Just when he was starting to resign himself to the idea of having to pick one for the many ones they’d seen, Nicaise got a call from an agent regarding a place in one of the districts Laurent liked most. The apartment was on the same street of an antiques shop he liked to go to and was walking distance from a tram station that could take him straight to work when he didn’t feel like driving down to the centre. 

From that perspective alone, Laurent was convinced to go, even though he was tired and snappy and in need of a good shower. 

It was a fourteenth floor in a newly built complex and they were advertising to young professionals and couples, mostly, for its proximity to the city center but without the terrorizing aspect of the tourists or the commute from more suburban areas. 

Perfectly hidden away between the largest park in the city and a cozy yet still up-and-going area full of local shops and businesses. 

He knew, from the moment he entered, that it was exactly what he wanted. What he was looking for; not too big nor excessive, with a larger lounge and a small kitchen, for he rarely did any cooking, and with huge floor-to-ceiling windows that opened into a small balcony. The master bedroom had an en-suite with a bathtub and the same, large, paneled windows with view to the riverside and the closest districts directly across. 

“It’s a nice view, isn’t it?” The agent said, casually, “You can see the bastion from up here. It’s beautiful in the winter, covered in snow.” 

Laurent looked to where the agent was pointing and found it, the bastion. It seemed to always change with the seasons. Prominent as it was from every angle in the city, it was easy to spot even in the distance. Now, it was covered in the burnt colours that accompanied the fall. Soon enough, it’d be an ice castle. 

They resumed the tour around the property, asking questions about utilities and referencing and neighbours. It was slightly over budget, but Nicaise had a knack for negotiating. 

So it was all reduced to a word. Yes or no. 

~~Game?~~

His mother had told him the day before, as they were having dinner together, that when looking for a place he had to try and imagine himself living there. And if he could see the image clearly, perfectly neat, then it meant it was _the one._

He closed his eyes for a moment, saw the place he’d imagined fit into the walls and edges of the real one. And so, he knew. 

_It’s perfect._

Nicaise came to stand beside him, at the balcony, with the agent waiting for them a few steps back, “What do you think, Lo?”

Laurent snapped his eyes open, then turned to the agent and said, “Can I make an offer?”

***

_Marlas, 25/11/2013_

_Subject : Employment offer to Laurent de Vere._

_Dear Laurent,_

_We are happy to confirm that you have been offered a position of Editorial Assistant at Elephant Book Group with an ideal starting date on the 2nd of December 2013. You would be employed under a permanent contract with a gross salary of $40,000, 25 days of annual leave and 8 bank holidays.Your daily tasks are covered in the job description that you have received._

_We are looking forward to working with you._

_Best regards,_

_Vannes Saares_

***

_Darling, you send me._

The house warming party was a collective idea, brought up in late dinner conversations with Aimeric and Nicaise. After signing the contract, Laurent moved in almost immediatly. It happened fast—faster than he was prepared for. In the span of a week he had secured an apartment and a job and he couldn’t yet believe it. 

~~And still he hadn’t seen Damen.~~

Better now if he didn’t, in case the feeling of being trapped became too overwhelming. 

It was a Saturday, the one before he officially started to work, and he was standing in his brand new kitchen, popping open a bottle of prosecco, listening to the soft playlist he’d carefully selected for the occassion. 

He hummed along to sweet Aretha Frankling as he pulled the cork out of the bottle, trying to swift over the words as she did. 

_At first, thought it was infatuation, oh it lasted so long, so long._

_Now I find myself wanting._

~~_I want you to marry me, please take me home._ ~~

It was a small gathering, barely a handful of people. But Aimeric offered to cater the food and thus it felt like a proper dinner party. 

There was a knock on the door and he frowned slightly, as he wasn’t expecting the guests for the next half an hour or so. He was surprised when he saw his mom, standing outside in the hall, carrying a gift wrapped box bigger than her head. 

“Surprise!” She said, smiling. 

“Mom,” he blinked, “You’re early.”

“I know. I have something for you, Laurent.” 

He let her in, showed her to the living room where she placed the box carefully on the dining table. 

“You shouldn’t have,” he said, “I thought I’d said no presents.”

She looked up at him then, placed a hand on his cheek, “I know that too. You’re so grown up, sweetie.”

Laurent softened up at that, smiled too, “And you’re only noticing now?”

“You were away for so long,” she shook her head, “I’m so happy to have you close to home again.”

A river of thoughts crossed his mind then. He wondered if any of those he would dare say out loud. If he would mean them.

_I know it’s been tough for you to have me so far away. I know you’ve missed me. I know I’ve been cruel to you and distant and ungrateful._

_I know I’ve been a bad son, so why are you such a good mom?_

Before he could figure out a way to answer, she squeezed his shoulder affectionately, “Well, aren’t you curious to see what it is?”

Laurent took off the black bow on top, ripped off the smooth silver paper and opened the box carefully. It was a typewriter. His breath got stuck somewhere in his throat when he realized it was his father’s typewriter. 

He’d seen it over a million times in his old studio, a place no one really used. It was always left opened and cleaned, but no one touched its belongings. Sometimes Auguste did; he took a book or two, sat at the desk to read, or borrowed some of their father’s stationary. It was all engraved as A. de Vere, so Auguste mindlessly stole a few many items. 

Eventually, those came back as well, in the form of mementos. Two lifetimes of memories for a single pen or wax seal. 

Laurent didn’t want any of them. He would enter his father’s studio, or Auguste’s bedroom and stare at them sometimes, feel the weight of them on his palm, pinch his finger with the metal tip of an old fountain pen and leave it where he found it. 

Growing up, it was the same with the typewriter. He’d feel curious from time to time and entered the room when no one was at home to see him. He’d close the door and study it’s contents: the dark oak bookshelves, the antique bureau and velveted arm chair. It smelled old, like leather and wood and paper. 

Laurent spent an infinite amount of afternoons hidden there, spinning the sepia-coloured earth-globe on the desk, listening to the sound of his fingers typing his name on the spaced out keyboard. It didn’t feel wrong and probably no one would have minded; it had been all his father’s, after all. And yet, it always felt like something he needed to keep secret, or else the whole experience would be tainted and ruined. 

It felt like a game, and all games had rules. 

Perhaps this was his prize for being ~~sneaky~~ careful. Laurent held his breath as if he was still a child in hiding, he pressed down the letter L and then the A. Wrote his name on air, letting the importance of such a gift set down on every cell in his body. 

Dwell on the fact that he always thought he didn’t deserve to ask for this, or anything, but in the end, it had been given to him without second-thought or word. 

A symbol of love? 

The voice of his mom took him back. She was watching his fingers dance over the letters, “It’s only been gathering dust in his study. Now that you’ll be an editor, I’m sure he’d want you to have it.” 

_Even if I don’t write anything?_ He wanted to say.

_Even if I never knew him?_

_Even if I’ve only doubted him?_

“Thank you,” he whispered. 

She pulled him into a hug and he had to lean down to reach her properly. (When had he grown so much taller? Why was he only noticing now?)

“I’m so proud of you,” she said, and Laurent closed his eyes, “I’m sure they are too.”

***

It all progressed naturally after that. 

There was enough food to feed an army and a wide variety of alcohol, courtesy of Nicaise and the rest of his guests. There was music and sweets and inevitably, also gifts. Mostly things for the house, like a brand new kettle, a set of espresso mugs and plants. Several of them that he wasn’t sure he could keep alive. 

It was fun, though. The most fun he’d have since he left Italy. and he was glad for the change. 

He even managed to, by some rare miracle, catch up with Jord. He attended without his fiancé, although Laurent had politely extended the invitation to the other man as well. 

Strangely, he hadn’t noticed how much he’d missed those seemingly casual, meaningless conversations he had with Jord until this one approached him at the party. During university, he’d proven to be more intellectually engaging than Laurent had anticipated, sometimes even advising Laurent on his classes. 

They talked mostly about books, really. Sometimes drifting to ethics and morals, some philosophy and the basics of political ideology. The kind of things he couldn’t talk to both Aimeric and Nicaise without them making it either about sex or an opportunity to fight with each other, as it happened often. 

Now, he looked at him and he felt both the ambivalence of both happiness and an oddly guarded resentment. Jord was the one to make Aimeric miserable, after all. Indirectly so, or that’s what he thought. 

Laurent quickly shoved the sentiment away to the vault at the back of his mind, the one full of things he didn’t wish to deal with. 

“This place is beautiful,” Jord said, “Very you.”

“Thanks. Nicaise helped out, actually.”

Jord sighed, gave him an apologetic look, “I wish I could have helped too.”

Laurent shook his head dismissively, “You had a wedding to plan. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I got lucky to have Aimeric helping me out so much. I couldn't have done it without him.”

Inside his head, Laurent turned to look at the vault. Still closed. 

“Yeah,” he said, a bit quietly, “Yeah, he’s a good kid.”

~~A good kid?~~

“Still,” Jord said, then took a sip of his drink, “I haven't seen you much since you arrived.”

“That's easily fixed, I'll come bother you when I need help at work.”

Jord laughed at that. ~~Whenever had he gotten so good at mingling?~~ “Of course. Congratulations on the new job by the way. You're brilliant so it's not much of a surprise.”

“How about you? Are you teaching any young geniuses yet?”

Rolling his eyes, “As if. You’re probably the last genius to graduate from Marlas University.”

He felt the blood rush to his cheeks. For a minute, he wished he still wore all the rings he had in Italy. They were good to play with, although it probably could be added to his list of bad habits. 

“Just don’t let Nicaise hear that.”

“He didn’t actually graduate in Marlas, did he? I believe he went to an equally obnoxious university in England.”

The conversation kept flowing after that. Jord, very generous and opposed to his demand of no gifts, gave him a first edition of a book they both loved, and so they spoke about it for most of the evening. 

By the time the flowers arrived, Laurent was already a bit tipsy, then sobered up in a flash as he read the words on the card. 

At first, he’d thought, rather absurdly that the knock on the door was...Damen. And he was ready, so ready to chastise him. _Why haven’t I seen you? I got to Marlas weeks ago, why have you been MIA?_

In the seconds it took him to go to the door, he’d imagined him standing there, a shy smile on his face, the carousel box in his hands. _‘Hello stranger.’_

_‘It’s been a while.’_

_‘Whose fault is that?’ he would have said._

Perhaps, he would have kissed him right after kicking him on the shin for being late. 

But when he opened the door, it was a delivery man. It was just flowers. Beautiful, autumn flowers in red and orange tones. A perfectly arranged bouquet. A knowing one, it inspired sorry. Apology. If he hadn’t been yet drunk, or if he would have been a bit smarter, he would have thrown it away with the trash. 

_“Congratulations on your new place, angel. Forgive me — rain check?”_

_Dumbfounded_ , he thought, awkwardly, as his own smile fell. He was left dumbfounded at his own dinner party. So he did the best he could do in this case and ~~let it ache~~ take the flowers to the kitchen and put them in water before continuing to pretend nothing had happened. 

Because nothing had. 

Maybe it was a joke. 

Maybe Damen was just messing with him, as he sometimes did. 

So he texted him, right after pouring himself a glass of red wine. He arranged the flowers in a vase and set the bottle right next to him, then snapped a picture to attach to the message. 

_L: thank you for the flowers._

~~_Are you really not coming to my party? Do you really not want to see me?_ ~~

He bit one of his nails as he waited, then felt disgusted at himself. He had enough bad habits as it was, he couldn’t spare another one. 

Damen didn’t reply right away, and so Laurent left the kitchen and joined what seemed to be an interesting debate on monogamy that somehow drifted onto the less richer topics like whether Ancel, a friend from his college years, was a natural redhead or not. 

After an eternity, Damen’s message came through. 

_D: I’m so sorry, Lo. I really wanted to make it tonight._

Disappointment sunk in deep, like the blade of a knife cutting into the most tender part of himself. And he’d bleed out fast, so fast, but not enough to unsee and undo the odd rhythm of his heart as he read the message over and over.

The world went cold around him. _I know you_ , he thought, _you’re like this._ He was not surprised, however he had hoped he’d be wrong. He’d had a feeling earlier that it would come up to this. 

During the last months of his stay in Italy, Damen had been awfully quiet and Laurent had tried everything to row him back to him. But there was so much he could do while an ocean away. 

Laurent had dreamt of the moment they could see each other again in Marlas. To be honest, he’d only endured the last couple days hoping that—at least tonight, they would meet. He’d endured the house hunting and job interviews and constant packing and moving and setting up his bank accounts, changing back his number, re-routing his mail and dealing with contracts and contacts and so many people who demanded his attention twenty four hours of every day. 

He was suffocating and yet—if it had come to him, he would have dropped everything to see Damen. So why wasn’t he coming tonight? 

Even if they weren’t alone but at a party and tired and stressed and maybe not their best selves. Even if they couldn’t really talk or hold each other the way they’d wish to. At least they’d be in the same place together. At least he’d see Damen smile at him from across the room, make eyes when ~~Nicaise~~ someone said something obnoxiously stupid. 

And perhaps that would have been all he needed to realize he’d been right at relocating back to Marlas. Perhaps that would have been the confirmation he needed to stay. The sign of the universe. The second to change his life. 

Instead, the text drained his last drops of energy. He blinked at it, knowing by the pulse in his forehead that he’d been frowning. He put the cellphone back in his pocket, ignoring the slight tremble of his hands and shook his head, rearranging his features into a smile. “It’s nothing — work.”

Ancel continued talking then and Laurent made sure to pay enough attention to smile at the right times and comment when prompted. If anyone noticed how his eyes went slightly out of focus for a few seconds between this and that, no one mentioned it. Perhaps they blamed it on the drink he was so tightly clutching. The wine was nursing him, at this point. Keeping him from giving in to the intensity of the sudden anger that overcame him. 

Why couldn’t he be normal? 

Why did it always—hurt this way when something…

It didn’t matter.

By the time everyone left, fed and drunk and happy, he had almost convinced himself that it didn’t matter.

It was just a housewarming party and Damen was busy. He cared so much about his job and it was demanding. Surely something had come up last minute and he couldn’t get out of it. 

He tried, Laurent liked to think. That he’d tried but alas, nothing to do. Although he wasn’t sure that was the reality. 

With a sigh, he set up to pick up the trash and put the rest of the food in the fridge before changing and preparing for bed. When it was all done, he turned off all the lights and sat in front of the floor-to-ceiling paneled windows in the living room with the remnants of a merlot. 

Staring at his own reflection, he titled the bottle towards the glass, _Here’s looking at you, kid,_ before taking a sip. 

It wasn’t dark at all, he realized, what with all the lights of the city. _Mental note: get curtains._ There was always traffic, always people around. Laurent hated it so much; he missed the quietness of Ravenel, the early nights of a simpler life. And the beach. 

And the summer. 

And—

He hadn’t replied to Damen. With a loud sigh, he pulled out his phone and typed in the first thing that came to mind, only noticing he was biting his lip when he tasted the first drops of blood. 

_L: don’t work too hard, it’s not healthy._

The call entered in two seconds, startling him. When he picked up, his heart was racing back up his throat. He clutched the bottle tightly against him. 

“Hello?”

On the other side, Damen said, “You sound tired.”

_Ah._

_I know you, you’re like this._

“So do you,” Laurent said. 

“I’m sorry I couldn’t make it.”

Laurent smiled bitterly at nothing and everything, “You’ve said that.”

“I mean it.”

“I’ll pretend I believe you.”

A pause. “Lo, please—”

“I’m kidding.”

~~_I’m not._ ~~

“Are you free next week? Let me make it up to you.”

Licking his lips, the blood was still there. He put a finger to it, stared at the red, “I have a wedding next week.”

“So I've heard, are you going with someone?”

A small laugh escaped him. He shook his head, even though Damen couldn’t see him, “No, I'm...” ~~_alone_ ~~, “I'm going by myself.”

Playfully, Damen said, and Laurent could hear the smile in his voice, “What a coincidence.”

And maybe it was because he was alone in a still strange house and Damen always made him feel safe and warm that he said, against his better judgement, “I’ve missed you.”

“I've missed you too, angel,” Damen said it quietly, seriously. And it was enough for him in that moment. When Laurent exhaled that shaky breath, it came away with all the tension he’d built up for the past weeks. 

Suddenly, he felt very tired.

He wished he could hug him. Damen. 

“I should go. I’m getting sleepy.”

“Okay,” and, “Sleep well, sweetheart.”

“You should sleep too.”

A hidden smile, he could hear it perfectly, “I will.”

“Okay.”

“I’m glad you're back, Lo.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“Bye then.”

“Bye, Damen.”

Laurent took off his glasses, pressed his forehead against the cool glass and closed his eyes. The clocks marked one in the morning. 

With his joints aching, he pushed himself up, noticing how his back and neck were tied in knots. He was a bit tipsy, a bit sleepy, a bit sick. He felt bittersweet. 

_I’ve missed you too._

He heard the words over and over as he went to bed, slipped underneath his new duvet, head pressing against new pillows. 

_Angel._

When he fell asleep, it was quickly, soundly. 

Welcome home, Laurent. Welcome back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back.
> 
> It's been some crazy weeks--plot twist after plot twist. But here I am. I hope everyone is well. 
> 
> I introduce you: the Bastion arc. 
> 
> Unfortunately, so much stress has taken a toll on my health and so I've been told to take things as easy as I can, which means chapters will be coming out way slowlier than before. I'll try to have a few more written before the next one is out -- whenever that may be. 
> 
> Anyway, thanks to my lovely friends for editing this and helping me out as always. What would I do without you?
> 
> Enjoy and see you all soon.<3
> 
> "Oh, my life is changing everyday / In every possible way / And oh, my dreams / It's never quite as it seems / Never quite as it seems." & "I want more, impossible to ignore / Impossible to ignore / And they'll come true / Impossible not to do / Impossible not to do." & "And now I tell you openly / You have my heart, so don't hurt me." lyrics taken from [Dreams](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yam5uK6e-bQ) by The Cranberries.
> 
> "Darling, you send me / At first, thought it was infatuation, oh it lasted so long, so long. / Now I find myself wanting. / I want you to marry me, please take me home." lyrics taken from [You Send Me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HQNJTmyPdnw) by Aretha Franklin.
> 
> "Here’s looking at you, kid" quote taken from Casablanca.


	22. Act II: Chapter 19

What will you do?

_And what can I do?_

Come down, it’s not worth it.

_But he is. He’s worth it._

Is this not enough?

_It’ll never be enough._

Think about what it could be.

_Without him._

Without him.

Think of what you could do. 

_Without him._

What you could have.

I’m giving you something.

Laurent? 

I’m giving you a choice.

Laurent?

I’m granting you freedom. Wouldn’t you like freedom?

 _I can’t,_ Laurent said. _I can’t._

_I can’t leave._

But you can.

You will.

***

The ceremony would take place during the last hours of daylight in Marlas. 

Winter always seemed to cast a perennial shadow over the city, granting very few moments of enjoyable sun. Jord and Nikandros had been lucky, however, as the day of their wedding was bright and rather warm for the season. 

Some would say they had been blessed by God, granting them with cloudless skies as a symbol of happiness. 

_Foolish believers_ , Laurent thought, as he stood on the steps of the basilica, feeling the sun warming up his back. 

The previous days had been plagued by rain and ice and he’d already begun to dread the snow predicted for the following week, when the temperature was expected to drop considerably. So, because they were early, he allowed himself to stop for two minutes and try to absorb as much of the sun as he could, before it was gone completely until the spring. 

A few steps above him, Nicaise turned and said, “You look like a cat,” he stretched out, “Or a turtle.”

Laurent let out a small laugh, “A turtle?”

“Haven’t you seen them stand under the sun? They look like they’re doing yoga.”

A memory flashed quickly before his eyes; Fabio and himself watching baby turtles crawling on the sand of a rather lonely beach in Italy. It was not yet season for the tourists and the water was a bit cold, but they still went and stood ankle-deep in water, walking and tripping and laughing. 

They’d found the turtles by accident, and so they’ve crouched down to see them up close, encouraging them to reach the sea.The whole scene played silent in his mind except for the sound of waves crashing. He couldn’t hear the words coming from Fabio’s mouth, but there was the ring of his laughter before he was pulled back to reality. 

“I guess you’re right,” Laurent said after a second, then straightened up before following Nicaise up the stairs. 

St. Stephen’s Basilica was considered the heart of Marlas, for it stood right at the centre of the city. It was unnecessarily large for a church and one of the many exponents of neoclassical architecture in Delpha. It had two bell towers on each side, considered the highest points of the city until they started to build skyscrapers across the river. 

It was funny, Laurent always thought, that the basilica used to be a theater, and much later a brothel and refuge of the ill and homeless back during the war and occupation by the Patrans before it was ‘sanctified’ by one of the Kings and therefore embellished in gold and jewels stolen from other countries. 

All in the name of God, of course. 

Funny how some random man with megalomania and a small dick had suddenly taken a look at the facade and decided to make it a palace for God, at the expense of the people. 

He wondered if people knew the whole history and decidedly ignored it, or if they were all guilty of the same sin. 

Whatever it was, it didn’t take from the basilica’s beauty nor Laurent’s appreciation of it. It was just that he hated the idea of religion and royalty and he couldn’t help but be reminded of what he knew as he entered, steps echoing on the marble. 

By the way Nicaise tensed up slightly besides him, he knew at least he was feeling as uncomfortable as he was. It was a good sign that neither of them had been reduced to ashes just yet.

“I haven’t been in a church in so long,” he whispered. 

“Since you got your dick sucked, was it?” Nicaise asked casually.

“Shut up, someone might hear you.”

“Like God you say?” Nicaise grinned, “Too late, love.”

The lobby was empty except for the most direct members of Jord’s and Nikandros’ family, and Aimeric, standing close to the dais and talking quietly with the priest.

He was dressed simply and held a clipboard in his hands, a pen tucked behind his ear. As they walked towards him, it became more apparent how distraught he actually was. There was desperation in how he articulated, anxiety hidden in his features, in the details that other people ever so rarely caught. 

Upon seeing them, Aimeric cut his conversation with the priest and seemingly dismissed him. When Nicase made a comment, all Aimeric said was, “Just reminding him of timing.”

He said it coldly. Somehow empty, drained from all vitality. It was so unlike him that for a minute Laurent felt he was standing in front of a completely different person. As if Aimeric had suffered from something irreparable, a loss so achingly profound he had become someone else. 

He supposed it was true in a way, as the wedding was the physical form of his heartbreak, but there was something else, Laurent was sure. He just didn’t dare ask.

Without a word, Nicaise reached under his jacket and pulled out a small silver flask. He handed it to Aimeric, who hesitated before undoing the cap and downing whatever was inside. 

He coughed afterwards, cleaning his mouth with the back of his hand, “That is some strong shit. The fuck is that?”

“Scotch,” Nicaise said, taking the flask back, “Very old.”

Aimeric coughed again, then cleared his throat. He gave a long look to Nicaise, eyeing him up and down, “Finally you’ve dressed like a normal person.”

Nicaise smiled at that, then spun to show him his bare back. It was an all black designer suit, because satan forbid he wore anything less than that to any event in his life. The only difference was that the back was almost completely exposed, and because it was winter, Nicaise carried a thick white coat in his hands. 

“Fun’s in the back,” he said. 

Laurent saw the way Aimeric’s eyebrows raised up almost to his hairline, and then his eyes rolled back so hard he probably saw his own skull. 

Biting up a smile, Laurent asked, “Where are the grooms?”

A sigh, “In separate rooms, getting ready.”

“Are you okay?”

“I will be if these people do their jobs right. I need them to be clockwork perfect.”

Nicaise turned around again, then threw the coat over his shoulders, “Tell me who do I have to yell at.”

“Make sure the drivers are ready at the entrance at all times.”

Nodding, Nicaise gave him another devilish grin before taking the clipboard from his hands, “You got it, poppet.”

Once Nicaise was gone, Laurent asked, “Can I help somehow?”

“Do you mind being on door duty?” Jord’s sister was supposed to do it but one of her kids puked and she left to change her.”

“All right,” and then, “You look awful.”

Aimeric gave a shaky laugh, “I know. I'll get the grooms’ make up artist to help me in a second.”

“Mer,” Laurent said, as calmly as he could, “You need to breathe.”

“I’m breathing.”

_More like close to hyperventilating._

“Not properly.”

“I’m fine,” Aimeric said, “I swear. It's just…” and it took him a minute to finally pull out the words. Grimly, he whispered, “It's the end.” 

“It's not,” Laurent said, hands on his friend's shoulders and squeezing comfortingly, “It's only the beginning for you, to let go of this. Okay?”

Nodding, “Right—I just…” Aimeric’s eyes filled with tears, and when he closed them, there was a hint of frustration to it as the drops slipped away, “No one can see me like this.”

Suddenly they were back to high school, and college, and all the times they held each other’s hands through a thunderstorm. When either of them was capable of a gentleness that couldn’t be expected from anyone else. 

It used to be a bit embarrassing back when they were children, but now it was just plainly needed and seeked for; the comforting of a best friend who has seen all and just didn’t care in the slightest. 

Their friendship, as far as Laurent was concerned, couldn’t be tainted with so little. Not a fist fight, or time spent apart, or the effects of a broken heart. 

In a swift movement, Laurent took the handkerchief from his breast pocket and then reached over to gently dab Aimeric’s tears away. It reminded him of another life and Aimeric tending to his wounds. Calling him an idiot, rightfully so. 

Laurent, it seemed, only got worse as he aged. 

Aimeric looked down as he chuckled, sniffing. Laurent could tell by the subtle blush that he was embarrassed, but didn’t push Laurent away. “You look handsome,” he said, then, looking up and meeting his eyes, “Trying to impress a particular someone?”

“Yes of course. I dressed up for the lord.”

Aimeric laughed properly at that. Laurent smiled, “There we go.”

“He’s been asking about you, a lot. Ever since he got back.”

Playfully, “The lord?”

~~Oh Laurent, you know better.~~

“Damen.”

Laurent felt his pulse speed up considerably. His hand stilled for a second, “Has he?”

A nod, “Yes. He actually helped a lot with the sitting arrangements and the flower choices.”

A frown, “He never mentioned it. If anything, it's been the actual opposite.”

_Radio silence._

“He just doesn't want you to see how interested he actually is. He’s like a puppy, it's actually disgusting.”

“You sound like Nicaise now.”

“That’s the most insulting thing you’ve ever said to me.”

They stared at each other for a brief second, unblinking. Slowly, and then all at once, Laurent started to laugh, and then Aimeric was laughing with him. The sound of it resonated within the basilica, jumping on the corners, echoing and multiplying. 

It was one of those moments, brief as they often were, that defined one’s life. The scene’s worth of camera shots and super eight films. _I’m so lucky,_ he thought, _to have a best friend_. To have this person I can laugh with.

_I’m so lucky to make this person laugh._

And he thought ~~of Auguste, and his laughter, and his bad jokes and funny faces and that when he cried, when he had cried, it had always been so terrifying, as if the universe would collapse upon the fall of his tears~~ of all those other times, when they smoked their first cigarette together and hated it. When they got so wasted they couldn’t tell apart day from night. When they fought and yelled but eventually always came around. Always laughed. 

“Are you going to be ok?” Laurent asked, once they’d managed to calm the burst of hysteria down. 

Aimeric gave a firm nod, a small smile, “Yes, I promise. Go on, I need to get my face fixed.”

Laurent started to walk backwards towards the entrance. He said, “Find me if you need anything else.”

“If you see any rich man with a house in Malibu casually roaming around, give him my number.”

With a wink, Aimeric waved him goodbye and then disappeared through one of the doors, likely searching for Jord’s make up artist.

As he stood by the door, Laurent could hear the lovely sound of his other best friend, yelling at someone for their incompetence and calling them a muppet. The guests arriving were startled by the noise, but Laurent greeted them accordingly, handing in ceremony programs and pretending Nicaise didn’t exist. 

“Is your tie alright?” a familiar voice said behind him.

“It is,” Laurent responded absentmindedly, looking down at his shoes, “Nicaise fixed it for me.”

“Who’s Nicaise? The one with the foul mouth?"

Laurent started to smile. He thought, _‘And the British accent’_ then frowned as the sound sank in. He seemed to realize then it wasn’t in his head. He’d heard it, and it was awfully familiar — too much, too close to a voice he’d grown up hearing, imitating, following. 

Loving. 

For a second, his heart stopped painfully and he swallowed, then he turned around so quickly he had to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose and hold them in place before they slipped. 

But there was nothing there. No one nearby. 

There never was. 

Laurent cleared his throat. Told himself it was just the fact that he was in a church; the high ceilings and the distortion of noise. 

The highest form of humanity’s delusion.

***

He was found with a whisper. Close to his ear, lips almost grazing his skin, “My angel.” 

Like a constellation, he was discovered. 

Laurent felt Damen’s voice like a chill through his body. He must have shivered as he felt Damen’s hands on his shoulders. When he turned around, still in the other’s arms, he was welcomed with a bright smile and the image of the man itself polished to the max in a black tux and perfectly trimmed beard. 

~~And the orchestra came in. The angels sang. The skies opened up.~~

He felt shy all of the sudden, shy but too happy to contain his own excitement. _One year_ , he thought, _forever and a day._

He would have yelled at him. He would have reprimanded him severely. He would have folded his hands and coolly pretended he was rather bored to see him. He would have ignored his sweet eyes and gentle smile and the way his thumbs were rubbing on his arms. 

He would have, had he not been too afraid of ruining their encounter. 

He should have. 

But Laurent was simply too in love with him to do it. His knees still went weak at the sight of him. He still found himself wanting nothing more than the man’s undivided attention.

And when he had it, it was just as fervent as igniting a match. 

Today though was so much like the meet-cute of a movie. One of those Italian ones in black and white he used to watch before falling asleep, with the cliché trope and problematic heterosexual couple; boy meets girl, boy loses girl, boy meets girl again.

This one was better. This one had Damen. 

“Damen,” Laurent said, and his eyes shone gold as he returned the smile. 

_My Damen._

When they hugged, it was tightly, comfortingly. He felt Damen chuckle as he squeezed him, and for a few moments they did not say a word. They just stood there by the entrance of the church, their atoms re-accommodating in the space where they both finally existed. Like it had always been, like it should always be. 

As they separated, he felt the shift of Damen’s gaze to roam all over him. Heads to toe, clearly appreciating what he saw. Laurent would have felt embarrassed if he had not been doing the exact same thing. Searching for any differences in the Damen he’d waved goodbye at the airport. 

If anything, this future version was infuriatingly more handsome. 

He felt his cheeks flush. 

~~_Is my tie alright?_ ~~

It was just like Italy except this time he was expecting it. This time, he wanted it. 

“Hi,” Damen said, charming. 

_At last._

Laurent resisted the urge to _sigh_ , “Hi.”

Damen’s hands moved then, to the back of his head, close to his nape, “You look beautiful.”

Softly, “Thanks.”

“Short hair?” Damen asked next, fingers playing with the short strands above his ears, “No jewelry?”

“A more adult look,” and then, shyly, “Do you not like it?”

Shaking his head a little, Damen never stopped smiling, “I love it.”

Laurent chuckled, “You look good too. Too good actually.” He touched Damen’s torso as he said so, one hand travelling smoothly from his shoulder to his waist before pulling him closer. 

Damen laughed softly, his own hands finding their place on Laurent’s lower back. He asked, smugly, “Is that inconvenient for you?”

He could hear his own smile as he spoke, “Mildly.”

“I see,” Damen said, “Well, I apologize.”

Teasingly, “I don’t know if I can forgive you just yet.”

Damen’s voice lowered slightly then, a small playful smile as he reached to kiss next to his ear, “Can’t you?”

“Maybe tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? And whatever I must do for the rest of today?”

~~_Love me._ ~~

Laurent smiled a wicked smile, “Think of me.”

It was then that someone decided to burst their bubble. The remark came in so sharp and so sudden, Laurent could almost hear the invisible bubble pop loudly. 

Nicaise walked past them, an amused look on his face as he said, “You better behave yourselves this time,” then gestured with his head to the nearest sculpt of Christ in a pillar next to them. 

Laurent glared at him, but Nicaise ignored him, instead focusing on Damen. He smiled, “Damianos.”

Damen nodded in greeting, “Nicaise.”

Nicaise seemed to like that. His head tilted to one side and he eyed him up and down like an object in a museum, “Cute like a puppy, as always,” then, to Laurent, “Come on, lover boy, we're sitting far back to avoid Jesus.”

“I'll be a minute.”

Shaking his head, “A minute is too long for you horny bunnies.” But he left, anyway. 

When Nicaise was completely out of sight, Damen whispered, “He's never gonna forget that, is he?”

Laurent hummed, “Neither am I.”

Damen groaned as their eyes met. Perhaps Laurent’s mischief displayed too well. “Lo,” and he looked around a bit nervously, “We don’t have time for this.”

“I think we do,” Laurent said, and he noticed the change in his body as he remembered and pointed to the nearest confessional booth, “That room is empty.”

Damen laughed, then kissed his forehead, “Angel, please. I don't want to get busted here.”

“But isn't that what makes it so exciting?”

It had. Laurent had thought of that day in Italy around fifteen thousand times ever since, sometimes even in dreams. And he always woke up to the consequences of it. 

“You’re terrible. That hasn’t changed.”

Laurent arched an eyebrow, then pulled on Damen’s tie to bring him lower. To his ear, he whispered, articulating each word so that the message was as clear as possible, “I can get on my knees this time.”

Damen shivered against him, then choked on nothing. His dark cheeks turned a very bright blush of red. Laurent watched him rather amusedly as he tried to formulate an answer, but they were interrupted again before Damen could manage.

Someone was calling for him, as he was best man to Jord’s fiancé and his presence was required before the ceremony began. Another odd coincidence that tied the invisible strings that connected them. 

“Catch you later?” Damen asked. 

Laurent tightened up his tie before letting him go. “You better.” 

As Damen walked away, Laurent allowed himself a minute to delight in the whole of him. His broad shoulders, wide, strong back. The shape of his ass in elegant trousers. The way he walked, then ran a few steps as he was being hurried. How his curls bounced at the back of his head without Damen even noticing. 

All he could think of was how bad he wanted to claim him. 

Like the prize at the end of a game. The subject of his utmost attention and affection. 

He imagined how it would have been; Damen ordering him to his knees and Laurent doing so willingly, like someone receiving the holy communion. 

It was no surprise for him to realize he would have done anything and everything, if only Damen had dared ask.

***

_We gather here to unite these two people in marriage. Their decision to marry has not been entered into lightly and today they publicly declare their private devotion to each other._

The ceremony was as long and boring as Laurent had predicted. It was a lovely wedding, that much he could tell, but the words of the priest went through one ear and out the other 

Whatever technique he had used to get through those endless lectures in university wasn’t working very well now. He kept spacing in and out, until Damen caught his eyes. He was to one side of Nikandros, a small smile toying on his lips as he watched the grooms holding their hands and beaming. 

To the other side of Jord was Aimeric, but unlike Damen, he looked ashen. His face was schooled carefully to look poised and charming, but Laurent could tell anything sharp enough would break it if he wasn’t careful. 

It was better than to keep looking at Damen. As much as he loved his best friend, he knew watching him closely would only make Aimeric more anxious and aware of how much he was pretending. 

So he looked away, then down, then around, then back at Damen. 

_The essence of this commitment is the acceptance of each other in entirety, as lover, companion, and friend._

Damen looked back. Laurent smiled. The priest talked, one of Jord’s baby nieces made a babbling sound. They looked away.

_A good and balanced relationship is one in which neither person is overpowered nor absorbed by the other, one in which neither person is possessive of the other, one in which both give their love freely and without jealousy._

After a minute or two, their eyes met again. 

_Marriage, ideally, is a sharing of responsibilities, hopes, and dreams. It takes a special effort to grow together, survive hard times, and be loving and unselfish._

“Oh for crying out loud,” Nicaise whispered next to him, “You both are ridiculous. Get a room.” And then, as if smiling at his own joke, “But not here.”

Laurent straightened. He whispered back, “Shut up.” 

Nicaise leaned closer to him, “The confessional is empty.”

“I learned my lesson.”

He had not. 

To Laurent’s left was a boy with red curls accompanying Jord’s paternal grandmother. From what he had gathered before from meeting Jord’s family, the child was very attached to her. He was no older than six or seven years old. In a sweet yet curious voice, he turned to his grandma and said, “What is a confessional?” 

The grandma side glanced at them before replying, “A place to repent for one’s sins.”

Nicaise added, “Among other things.”

“What things?” said the boy. 

“Praying,” answered the grandma, glaring their way, “Lots of praying.”

“On one’s knees.” Nicaise grinned, clearly enjoying himself. 

Mortified, Laurent elboweded Nicaise as hard as he could. Nicaise chuckled, then covered his mouth with the program in his hands.

Laurent said, almost pleadingly, “Please stop.”

“The what?”

Closing his eyes briefly, he told himself to breathe, “I swear to God.”

“Oh I’m sure God’s watching very closely.”

Miraculously, Nicaise finally stopped talking once the time came for the couple to share their vows. The entirety of the church seemed to be holding a tense, collective breath. And yet, it was one of those moments; tender in it’s own intensity. Jord and Nikandros looked at each other like nothing else existed. Like they were part of something the rest of them could only ever appreciate as outsiders. 

They had something that no one else in the world could have. It couldn’t be imitated nor repeated, for it was theirs and theirs only. Their own little world, sanctuary of a union, and the words that bound them. 

Love, but it didn’t suffice. Understanding. Commitment. 

Trust, above all else. 

Jord spoke first. He smiled the biggest smile Laurent had ever seen on him, “Nikandros,” he said, holding the other’s hands, “Today I take you for my husband. Now we will feel no rain, for each of us will be a shelter for the other. Now there will be no loneliness, for each of us will be a companion to the other. There is only one life before us, and our seasons will be good and long. I promise to love, honor, and cherish you, no matter what lies before us, for as long as we both shall live.”

Nikandros smiled. It wasn’t as big of a smile as Jord’s, but rather private, authentic. There was genuine affection in his eyes, something Laurent had never seen before in the brief time he got to meet him. To summarize, Jord had dated Nikandros for over a year. They went to the same gym and apparently signed up for the same hiking group on sunday mornings. Both of them were spirited and lively and loved to be outdoors ~~and whatever boring shit someone did outdoors.~~

Every time, however, that Laurent happened to be in the same room as the two of them, he could tell how Nikandros _disliked_ him. Why exactly Laurent wasn’t sure, but then again it wasn’t something new. It wasn’t like the man was rude to him, because he never was. But Laurent could feel it. 

After so many years in a catholic school, it was one of the things he could recognize right away. 

So this was the first time, really, that he saw both of them as they saw each other. All of the reasons why they should be together and perhaps also why they shouldn’t. In the end, it didn’t matter much as one’s desire. 

_Can one desire too much of a good thing?_

“Jord,” Nikandros said, “I promise to love and care for you and I will try in every way to be worthy of your love. I will always be honest with you, kind, patient, and forgiving. But most of all, I promise to be a true and loyal friend to you.”

And, 

“I love you.”

How would it feel, Laurent wondered, to have so much faith in another person? To trust that they will continue to love you and care for you even during the most abysmal times of your being? How would it be to have this person, look at them, think, _‘This is it.’_

_‘This is the one thing I can’t bear to lose.’_

And know that you’ve been chosen, too. Know that, for someone else you’re completely indispensable. Till death do you part. 

Well, people got separated all the time. But even so, just the fact of considering _that_ for a split second. Just seeing the word ‘forever’ and ‘death’ and thinking _that must be right. The separation might kill me._

_That must be right. Let me die before him._

As they said their vows and the priest talked, Laurent’s eyes went to Aimeric. Whatever form of composure he’d managed to retain until that very moment ended when two fat droplets ran down his cheeks the moment he closed his eyes. He seemed to realize this too late, and so he touched on his face lightly. The people at the front row noticed, by the way Aimeric shrugged a little and faked a smile towards Jord’s mom. 

_“Such a sweet boy.”_

By the way Nicaise tensed up besides him, Laurent knew he’d noticed. By the way Aimeric’s eyes caught his and hardened for a second, Laurent knew his best friend wouldn’t forgive him any sort of pity. And yet, he couldn’t help it. He looked at Aimeric and saw only the broken frame of who he had been, before the fatal flaw of his life. 

_“He organized the whole thing.”_

And the falling. 

_“The poor dear’s too sensitive.”_

Ironically, Laurent thought that the reason why tragedy made a story, and heartbreak made a song was because people fed off each other’s open bleeding wounds. 

Why pain was so romanticized and advertised — why it transcended history more than any other type of emotion. 

_Because you can’t run away from home without destroying somebody’s world._

Aimeric wasn’t just sweet. He wasn’t too sensitive. 

He was in love. 

***

The reception was held at Marlas’ City Park. More specifically, inside the castle that usually held The National Gallery surrounded by a lake that became the biggest ice rink in the country once the temperatures dropped enough.

How exactly had Aimeric managed to book such a venue was beyond Laurent’s comprehension. Being as wealthy as Jord and Nikandros was one thing, and yet another entirely to deal with Marlas’ Council and the seven circles of hell that was it’s bureaucracy. 

To say that it was beautiful, however, would be an understatement. In spite of the proportions and the crowds of guests, it all had been decorated to keep the delicacy of the chosen winter theme. It all shone white, blue and silver. Upon entering, Laurent felt like he was inside a maze of mirrors and chandeliers. But then the space opened up into the biggest ball room he’d ever seen in his life. 

The real party didn’t start until after they’ve served them dinner; a carefully picked mediterranean menu that reminded Laurent of hot summer nights in Italy ~~and Fabio and how they once smoked a joint in Fabio’s balcony and ate an entire melon, feeding each other pieces of fruit and prosciutto, licking the sweetness off each other’s fingers.~~

As per usual in these types of events, after a while he found himself alone at his table, drinking champagne from a flute and watching his two best friends dance poorly. He preferred it though, from there he could see Nicaise make all the wrong moves to make Aimeric laugh, and he smiled unconsciously. 

In spite of being constantly in each other’s throats, sometimes they could get along and that meant he finally got a few moments to himself without anyone making a drama out of each and every comment during a conversation.

“Can I join you?”

Laurent looked up. There was a man gesturing to the chair next to him. He seemed to be a few years older and had a warm smile. Red hair, a shade lighter than Ancel’s, deep green eyes and a face covered in freckles. 

He was objectively attractive. 

_Where have I seen those eyes?_

So he nodded, “Sure.”

“I'm Paul,” the man said, offering his hand. Laurent took it, “Jord's cousin.”

“Laurent — friend from college.”

“Ah, art history major?”

“Linguistics actually, we shared a few classes.”

“Really? That's interesting. I'm an interpreter.”

The conversation quickly diverted to languages. The stranger, Paul, spoke German and Norwegian and was a freelance translator and interpreter. He had a vast knowledge of East Europe and an even wider curiosity for scandinavian languages, considering learning Icelandic next.

He was easier to talk to than Laurent had expected, and so he found himself enjoying the conversation and carelessly snatching another glass of champagne from a waiter’s tray. 

It was in the middle of discussing the root of romance languages and how mistaken Laurent had been at thinking he could take up Italian just by following the basics of Spanish that they were interrupted by a small voice. 

A child came running to stand between them. The same child Nicaise was so keen on traumatizing back in the church, with the same green eyes of his father.

“Dada!” he said, “Fix my tie!"

Paul brought the child to sit on his lap and arranged his small bow tie. “There we go now.” And to Laurent, “Sorry, he’s my kid.”

The child seemed to finally acknowledge Laurent’s presence. He turned around, a smile never fading. His eyes scrutinized him for a good minute before he finally declared, “I know you!”

Laurent smiled. He’d always been uneasy around kids, but he realized then at some moment it’d changed. When had it changed? “Yes,” he said, “We were sitting together at the church.”

“And your funny friend.”

His smile faltered _. The horror._

“He _is_ very funny, do not take him seriously"

The boy giggled, then turned to his dad again, jumping up and down as he did so, “I want cake, dada!”

“You've had enough sweets for today, young man.”

Pouting, “But—”

“Ah,” a voice said, and Laurent’s stomach dropped in anticipation, “I remember someone who used to be obsessed with desserts too. I think he still is.”

Damen approached them with all the charm and nonchalantly only a man like him could muster. Charm, edging on arrogance, suited him well when he was dressed the part. When he smiled at the kid, however, he did so sincerely. 

“I heard the little fruit tarts are sugar free,” he said.

“Oh,” said Paul, “That seems okay, then.” 

“Fruit tart!” the kid chanted, “Fruit tart, fruit tart, fruit tart!”

“Alright, alright.” And, sending an apologetic look to Lo, the stranger said his goodbye while carrying his son to the desserts table, the child giggling and waving at them as they walked away. 

With both ‘intruders’ gone, Damen occupied the same seat to his left and smiled, clearly satisfied, “So,” he asked, “What are you doing here all by yourself?”

Shaking his head, Laurent crossed his arms over his chest, “You're ridiculous, aren't you?”

Damen shrugged, not a hint of regret, “I just want you all to myself.”

The colour rushed to his cheeks. He said, voice small, “For tonight?”

Playfully, “Maybe for a little longer than tonight.”

“I’ll think about your offer.”

Damen nodded, then took Laurent’s ~~cold, trembling~~ hand and brought it up to his lips to kiss. It made Laurent’s blush deepen. He drew in a breath, held it in for as long as he could, feeling the pressure in his chest soothe the raising nerves. 

It was the vision of a fairy tale come to life, Damen leaning down like a prince, lips brushing his knuckles, kissing them chastly. “I brought you a gift.”

Laurent closed his eyes briefly and smiled as a reflex. When he opened them again, Damen was standing back, also smiling. 

“You brought me a gift to someone else's wedding? Damianos, you're awful.”

“Well, Nicaise outgifted everyone, so.”

Laurent laughed. Nicaise had, in fact, outgifted every single guest by paying off Jord’s and Nikandros’ mortgage for their new house. He’d said it was as good of a gift as Aimeric’s mental health had been, which was true in a way. 

Presented to him was the carousel box, just exactly as he had given it away one year ago. The gesture was a question on it’s own and in spite of his eagerness, Laurent felt himself hesitate for a split second. 

It was the flash of his own dinner party, and unanswered texts and rushed calls. So many apologies said in the span of one year that the words _I’m sorry_ had begun to lose their intended meaning. It was his better self that reminded him of all these moments, where his heart was lowered and squeezed between his ribcage, threatening to pulverize the damn thing and put him out of his misery. 

It was the warning of his own mind, to be careful. To trust less. To play no games. 

But Laurent took the box anyway, because a part of his own soul was attached to it now, after so many years carrying it along. Being called to it like land calls for a man, like blood calls for blood, his fingers got a hold of the metal tin and the balance of the world tipped on his favour. 

He was game before he even knew what for. 

~~_I will give you anything you ask for. Just tell me, just ask me, just_ need _me._ ~~

Laurent wasn’t the type of person to give things away so easily. No, he’d learn to be more guarded, more weary. 

And yet, he’d fallen for it. In that moment, a wicked, beautiful smile broke out in his own face. “It’s been a while.”

Equally lovestruck, or seemingly so, Damen said softly, “I took good care of it for you.”

Examining for a moment, Laurent knew this to be true. It was perfect, no new scratch or mark on its surface. The colours had faded slightly over the years, but still its beauty remained intact, an ode to old things guarded and preserved throughout one’s life, as if their well-being foreshadowed that of the owner’s. 

It was easy to be cruel to things because they did not feel anything. Easier still if it’s hurt would be felt by another person. 

“I see that,” Laurent said, then added curiously, “What do you have planned?”

Offering his hand, Damen said, “Are you up for some treasure hunting?”

***

Treasure hunting was a thing played at children’s parties, where a host would ask the various kids to bring them whatever object they were asking for. The first child to arrive with the object earned a prize, and so, each time the host would call for a lipstick or a pair of car keys, you would see kids frantically running to their parents, and said parents trying to be quick enough to hand the desired object while being already tipsy. 

Damen’s version was about the same thing except they kept it secret. They dared each other back and forth for a shoe, an ugly hat, grandma’s car keys, a pink lipstick (not red, not coral, not gloss, but pink and matte) and trinkets that neither of them needed or intended to use in any way, (a belt, a credit card, a wedding ring, hand cream, a pack of condoms, a girl’s ribbon) but would mean a significant loss for the people they took them from. 

And it was exhilarating, although it shouldn’t have been. 

It was thrilling to steal from people unguarded, especially at a party. How easy would it be to take all the money and credit cards and jewelry, pick-pocketing without anyone sparing them a second thought. 

Why, but they were Damen and Laurent. Sweet people, the two of them. Nikandros’s best man and Jord’s close friend from college. They were so charming to everyone around them and each other that no one was aware of the stash of stuff they’d hidden underneath the desserts table, right below the gigantic cake Aimeric had spent the previous day making. By the time the objects were reported missing and immediately found, everyone would be too tired to care and perhaps blame it on one of the many children causing mayhem of their own. 

After a while, they retreated to a corner of the room to share their ‘treasures’, laughing quietly and examining the small pieces of other people’s lives, completely unaware of the only person who had been following them quietly. 

It shouldn’t have been surprising, really, when Aimeric came to stand in front of them, hissing Laurent’s full name. “Why did you steal Jord’s brother’s toupee?” and, “Are you playing that game of yours again?” 

Laurent blinked, “I don’t know what you’re talking about."

“I saw you,” Aimeric said, “Don’t even try to deny it.”

“Why do you ask then if you already know?”

“I swear, if you ruin the—” Aimeric started, then stopped as he looked down at the trinkets in their hands. It took Laurent a second to realize he was staring at the pack of condoms, “I’m sorry Damen,” he said, “you’re not using those tonight. Lo is mine.”

Damen blushed furiously. He was stammering his way through a poor excuse when Aimeric interrupted him, amusedly, “I heard you use the large sized ones anyway.”

There was a silence before Laurent spoke, “He did not hear that from me.”

Turning to him, Damen’s face was completely red, “If not from you then whom?”

A demon being summoned, Nicaise stepped in out of nowhere, “Clandestine meeting? And you didn't invite me? How rude.”

_Earth, swallow me whole._

“This is not—” Laurent tried, then sighed, “You both need to go.”

“Why, but I just got here.”

“Fine,” Aimeric said, “Come on, Nic, let’s see if they serve us tequila at the bar.” Then, at them both, “You, if you get caught, I don't know you.”

Nicaise seemed content with that, then spotted the subject of their conversation. His eyes darted from the condoms to Damen’s face then Laurent’s, “At least you’re playing safe.”

Laurent could feel the tip of his ears on fire when he said, “Just go.” 

As they walked away, Laurent could hear Aimeric’s _‘I missed this’_ and smiled just so. When he looked up at Damen, he knew he didn’t have to say anything, as it often happened between them. 

***

It was Damen who recognized the song first. He took Laurent’s hand gently, who turned his head and smiled as he heard the soft strumming of guitar. 

The novelty of the game hadn’t yet worn off, but they were tired after running around the venue like kids. So they’d stood aside for a moment, talking quietly and sharing a drink. 

It all felt so much more differently when people around them prepared to slow dance. The air shifted, and suddenly it was not about jumping on and about and happy screams and laughing, but it reflected perfectly the intimacy that came with their shared secrets.

Laurent thought about all the other times he’d happened upon the song unexpectedly. Like that time at the car, when he still wondered about the odds of love. And then in the pool or at the bar in Italy, when his feelings were most sincere. 

~~The fact that the song always preceded his utmost unhappiness, though, Laurent decided to ignore.~~

He held the box with a hand against his stomach, and he watched the way the melody reached Damen’s ears and his face completely changed. It grew so tender, so fond that Laurent felt somewhat ashamed for doubting him. 

“It’s our song,” Damen said, ~~and his heart weeped for i~~ t, and Laurent nodded simply. “Can I have this dance, Your Highness?”

Accepting, Laurent left the box at one of the nearby tables and let himself be guided to the dancefloor, where Damen positioned Laurent’s arms around his neck and placed his own on Laurent’s lower back. It was a sweet form of dancing, informal as it was, but true to earnest feelings. 

It was enchanting; the soft lights and the pale, icy colours of winter against the warmth of the ballroom, shielding them from the snow still settled outside. He could forget, for a moment, that he was in a place full of people he knew. He could forget it was someone else’s wedding day. He could forget everything except for Damen’s touch, his approach towards him. The way his body seemed to sync to his own — there was one person in spirit and yet two men, slow dancing to songs about love. 

“You know, I only ever listen to this song when I’m with you,” Damen whispered.

“Music is a type of magic,” said Laurent, looking up to meet Damen’s eyes, “It has an uncanny accuracy to find you when you most need it to.”

“Like us, then.”

Laurent smiled, but it was a fragile smile. It lasted only a second, “I wasn’t sure you’d come back” _back to me,_ he meant. He’s so sure to have fucked up his words, he closes his eyes before realizing Damen understood him perfectly. 

~~_So pathetic, Laurent, to project your own insecurities like that. So weak, Laurent._ ~~

Damen brought him closer, he said, “I always find you, angel.”

~~_Why didn't you visit me sooner then? What are you hiding from me?_ ~~

Noticing his hesitancy, Damen’s eyes turned serious. “I’ll _always_ come back to you.” 

Laurent believed him, because it was easier than not doing so. He thinks, when has Damen disappointed him? They are here right now, so it must mean something. 

If it meant everything to him, then it had to mean everything to Damen. 

Damen, kind and fair Damen, with his perfect hair and perfect cannelé eyes, swaying to the tune of his favourite song, looking at him like the world started and ended with _his_ Laurent, _his_ angel. 

They would not break each other’s hearts. 

When Laurent smiled, he did so tentatively, and Damen kissed his cheek sweetly. 

“You dance well.”

Laurent let out a soft chuckle, “You can blame Auguste for that.”

Curiosity creped up Damen’s features, “How so?”

“I did something to spite him once,” Laurent said, “I can’t remember what exactly. But he then signed me up for ballroom dance lessons. They were a nightmare.”

Damen laughed, then, “Did you two fight a lot when you were kids?”

It was a rare question for someone who knew them as well as Damen did. But perhaps his dynamic with Auguste was less obvious to those outsiders, something Laurent had never stopped to question.

He considered this for a moment before replying, “I wouldn’t say we fought, no. You know I had a thing for getting into trouble, and, well, Auguste was too much of a great target for pranks to be discarded. I’m sure he must have hated me once or twice.”

“Never a day in his life.”

Perhaps not. Hopefully not. His heart ached. 

“Did you fight a lot with Kastor?” Laurent asked.

“All the time. I mean,” he sighed, “I used to idolize him. I guess that really annoyed him because he’s making it _really_ hard for me to like him now.”

Frowning, “Is he still giving you a hard time at work?”

Damen smiled, shrugged a little, “Just the usual amount.” And then, lifting one hand to caress Laurent’s cheek softly, “But let’s not talk about that now, please, angel. I’m just so happy to see you.” 

Laurent flushed furiously. He looked down, then buried his face on Damen’s neck for lack of a better place to do so, “Are you now?”

A soft laugh, “Yes.”

“How much?” Damen hummed in question, so Laurent asked, “How happy are you? Describe it to me.”

“I’m so happy,” Damen said, “I think I could touch the sky with a finger.”

“Cheesy,” said Laurent, hiding his own smile, “Try again.”

“I’m so happy I could cry.”

“Cry then.”

“I can’t do it on command.”

“Again.”

“I’m so happy,” Damen whispered, “I would give anything for this night to never end.”

By then, Laurent’s heart was opening up a hole in his chest. It was agonizing, the feeling of pure joy. Just as much as it was to be grieving. 

It took him a moment to speak next, for he couldn’t trust to articulate any coherent words in the meantime. He noticed then the looks of some people towards them; Aimeric, Nicaise, some people dancing around them. Nikandros, too. 

“Everyone’s watching us,” he whispered. 

“They’re probably just jealous.”

“Jealous?”

“That I have you all to myself tonight.”

_Don’t say that. Don’t say those things._

_Can’t you see how much I ache for you?_

At Laurent’s silence, Damen said, “I was looking forward to this so much.”

“Was this part of your evil plan to seduce me?”

“My plan was more ‘stealing the wine and elope’”

Laurent hummed, “We could still do that.”

“I’m afraid I didn’t bring my white horse to the party.”

“I don’t care.”

When Laurent pulled away, he found Damen’s eyes were already expectant of his own. He made to bring Damen down to kiss him, lips barely grazing, when he felt a tug on his trousers. 

Looking down, he realized the song had already ended. There was a little girl with brown curls staring at them. She said, “Can we dance?”

Speechless as he was, he looked at Damen for help who in turn laughed. “I told you they were all jealous.”

“When you said that I didn't think you meant—”

“Girls? Now, you're not still scared of girls, are you?”

He felt his cheeks redden, again. “I've never—”

The girl tugged on his trousers again, then made grabby motions as soon as Laurent’s eyes landed on her. She could not be older than five, he thought. When he picked her up, she smiled brightly. Said, “Prince charming.”

“I agree, sweetie,” Damen said, “I'll let you two Royal Highnesses dance.” Then he gave a little bow, winked at Laurent before leaving the dance floor. 

Another song was starting, and so ignoring his own embarrassment, Laurent smiled at her, “Princess.”

The girl laughed. She loved him. And what for, he wondered. But maybe that’s why it was becoming easier to be around children. They just didn’t expect anything from him. "And who might you be, Your Highness?” she asked, as best as a five year old could, “You come from a country far far away?" 

Playing along, he said, swaying her around, “I do, it's very far away. I must leave by midnight.”

Gasping, “Will you turn into a frog if you don’t?”

“Yes,” he looked around before whispering, “But you mustn’t tell anyone, it's a secret.”

“That’s okay, I can kiss you if it happens.”

 _This girl has read too many fairy tales._ Perhaps, he thought, he should hide after midnight. Let her believe he was turning into a frog somewhere. Keep the illusion alive.

“You are so very kind.”

The child started to talk then, ask all kinds of questions about what being a prince was like and the castle and his horses and _what kind of clothes the princesses wear?_ All to which he tried his best to answer, relying on favourite stories from childhood and Disney movies that were Nicaise’s weaknesses. 

When he dared look back at Damen, his heart started to beat rapidly. He was watching them, smiling. It made Laurent feel a bit silly, a bit dizzy.

“Are you okay, prince charming?” 

He smiled, nodded, “Are you having fun, your highness?”

“I am! The music’s so pretty!”

“It is.”

He couldn’t help but listen to the lyrics though. He couldn’t help but feel the pressure of them inside, threatening to tear him asunder. 

_How could I face the faceless days_

_If I should lose you now?_

Music finds you, he’d said, when you most need it to. 

_We're so close to reaching that famous happy end_

_Almost believing this one's not pretend_

_Let's go on dreaming, though we know we are_

When Laurent searched for Damen next, he found the spot empty. He’d gone. 

_So close, and still so far._

***

Adorable. 

The scene displaying before him was nothing but adorable. Laurent, carrying a little girl and making her giggle as they swayed around. 

It was one of those moments Damen wished he could save forever in his memory. Laurent’s bright smile and kindness, his playfulness. 

_So close to reaching that famous happy end_

_Almost believing this one's not pretend_

He was indeed a prince. 

_And now you're beside me, and look how far we've come_

“Alright,” a voice said next to him, “It was him.”

Damen didn’t need to look to know it was Nikandros. “What?”

“Him you fucked in Italy.”

He felt himself choke on the wine he was drinking, coughing and covering his mouth as he did so. Nikandros simply grinned and waited for the glare he so deserved. 

“What are you talking about?”

“Well, his friend said, “You haven't left his side for even a second tonight, and I was told you were making googly eyes at him during the ceremony too.”

Rolling his eyes, Damen cleared his throat, “You’re ridiculous.”

“Am I? Now you look like you want to _pounce_ him. He can't get pregnant, Damianos.”

~~_Well that’s too bad, really._ ~~

Damen ignored him, then sipped from his almost-spilled drink. “Shouldn't you be with your husband or something? Did he demand a refund already?”

Nikandros laughed, “You wish. He's actually equally curious about this. Apparently your sweet thing mentioned you here and there before you two met again.”

Sweet thing. Damen sighed. 

“We’ve known each other forever, it makes sense.”

Humming, “Yes, maybe. I don't know what happened then, but I think he's equally smitten with you.”

Damen looked away when he felt his cheeks blush. He glanced back to Laurent and the little girl, she had her small hands on his shoulders and was chatting happily. Whatever she was saying made Laurent nod in appraisal, then chuckle. 

“I think so too.”

Nikandros seemed to follow his gaze, “But this is not Italy anymore, you're not on vacation.”

“What is this about, Nikandros?”

“I'm just saying, if you're serious about him, you should tell him.”

“Did Jord send you over to lecture me?”

“No, as your best friend, I have every right to lecture you when I believe you’re thinking with your dick.” And then, snapping his fingers as he rambled, “What happened to that girl from work? Johanna.”

“Jokaste.”

“That one.”

“She's not...him.”

“She’s basically the female version of him.”

“Maybe physically, they look similar.”

“Identical.”

“Stop.”

“You have a type, there's nothing wrong with that.”

Damen felt the threads of his patience snap loudly, “It's more than that with Laurent.”

Nikandros ignored his sudden temper. He squeezed his shoulder, “He’s the one, then?”

A sigh, “Go bother someone else.”

However, the words in Damen’s mind were different. They repeated over and over as he abandoned his drink and left the ballroom, looking for a place where he could breathe. 

_Yes, he always has been._

_The one._

***

It took him a little while to find Damen again.

After leaving the girl to her parents, Laurent set off to find his companion, but he had vanished from the ballroom. He chewed on his lip as he thought, and stopped to grab the carousel box and a few bites from the buffet before checking outside. His own stomach was growling as he slid a meatball inside his mouth and ate it as he walked. 

He found Damen sitting on the steps leading to the frozen lake before the castle. He looked pensive, _tense_ as he hadn’t been when they were dancing together. Similar to how he was in the train in Italy, and all those short moments he seemed to disappear inside his head, which never stopped to be uncommon in him. 

As he approached, he regretted not stopping to grab his coat on the way out. It was terribly cold and Laurent cursed as it felt the wind bit on his already red and tearing-open hands. The flesh around his knuckles was beginning to bleed. 

“Are you okay?”

Damen turned briefly to see him. He beckoned Laurent to sit in the space next to him, “It’s a beautiful view isn't it?”

Laurent complied, “It is. Dangerous too, if the ice breaks.”

Smiling, “Your mind is always scheming, isn't it.”

He grinned. “Wanna skate?”

That made Damen laugh. And so, he breathed a little better. “No way, I'm too clumsy and I'd rather stay like this by your side.”

Passing the paper plate full of food, Laurent said, “I brought you food. I didn't know what you preferred so I went for everything.”

“Very smart, I'll take whatever you don’t want.”

He grabbed another meatball, “We are gonna have a problem then.”

True to his word, Damen ate what Laurent seemed to like less, and they shared the beef pasties and cheese fingers that were everyone’s favourites. The carousel box stood between them, always a witness to their best moments.

And their stupid ones. 

Damen was feeding him a piece of brioche bread when Laurent smiled and tossed the box towards him, “Lick the ice.”

Grossed out, “There are animals and bugs out here even in the winter, you know.”

“Yield,” Laurent said, “Or give me your last empanada.”

Damen did neither. Instead, he moved the last two steps down to the lake and crouched down on it, sending a death glare to Laurent before taking a good lick, like a dog. It made Laurent laugh so hard, tears attempted to roll down his eyes. 

Passing him the box, Damen gestured down to the ice, “Touch the ice with your foot.”

Laurent complained, “Why me?”

“Because I’m too heavy.”

“Are you calling me skinny?”

A grin, “More like _dainty_ , honey.”

Annoyed, he ignored the flutter of his insides, “Fine, but if I fall to my death, it shall remain forever in your conscience.”

“I'll hold your hand, just in case.”

He rolled his eyes, “What a gentleman.”

Damen did, however, hold his hand. It was warmer than his, and he relished in the feeling a second too long, for the next thing he knew, he was slipping dangerously. Damen’s hand held him firmly, and then pulled him towards him quickly, back to safety. 

They were both breathing hard as they stared at each other. Damen was the first to speak, “Careful, angel.”

“I told you—” 

“I’m here to catch you.”

Nodding once, Laurent tiled his face upwards. It wasn’t a question more than it was an order. 

~~_Have me._ ~~

~~_Ask me._ ~~

~~_Take me._ ~~

_Kiss me._

When Damen leaned down to, a voice interrupted them yet again. Unwillingly, Laurent let out a sound of frustration, growing towards anger. 

“Hey,” it was a security guard, surveilling the venue for the wedding, “Get away from the lake! It's dangerous!”

They didn’t break apart immediately. It took them a minute or two or three. Damen yelled back an apology before unwrapping his arms from Laurent, and so they went back inside hand in hand, the carousel box hidden behind their backs. 

***

“Good evening, everyone. My name’s Damen, and I was chosen by Nikandros to be his best man. Now, don’t worry, I’ve prepared a very brief speech. 

There’s an old saying about friendship that reads, “It is one of the blessings of old friends that you can afford to be stupid with them,” and well, that couldn’t be more true for me and Nikandros. 

We don’t go way back, in fact we only met six years ago when we started working for the same company. And yet, it does feel like we’ve known each other forever. He’s become a best friend, a brother, and so being able to be here and witness the best night of his life is an honour. 

I could go into all the funny stories that include some of that stupidity I mentioned earlier, but instead I’d rather focus on all the smart moves he’s made. His friendships, the relationship he has with his family, his career, it’s all a reflection of the incredible man he’s become. But really, the smartest move he’s made is marrying you, Jord. 

So before you prepare for the well-anticipated toast, I’m going to let my competition as a best man, Aimeric, come over here and say a few words about the happy couple as well.”

***

_The time has come._

It seemed to have taken Aimeric a moment to remember how to use his legs, for he froze on the spot for a moment too long. He recovered quickly, though, and smiled as he stepped towards the microphone, Damen retreating to take his spot at the back. 

_So I will tell you a story._

“Firstly,” Aimeric started, and the crowd quieted,“I’d like to personally thank you all for coming and celebrating such a special occasion with us. My name is Aimeric and I’m Jord’s best man.”

_A story about a boy who would wreck it all for a little love._

_A little attention._

“And wedding planner. And caterer.” and a little sigh, a smile when people laughed.

_A boy who was bullied and shamed and shaped into something so much different from what he’d imagined once he’d be._

“And I believe I can say I’m now one of his best friend’s too.”

 _A boy who turned into a man knowing well he was pretty but not beautiful and smart but not outstanding. Who was a bit boring and a bit quiet and a great_ friend _but not a good_ boyfriend _._

“Jord and I met in college when I was still a freshman and he was completing his masters. Somehow, and I still wonder how or why, we became inseparable. For the last few years, he’s been by my side for every wrong move, every high, every low and all the biggest moments.”

_Someone who continued to shift and change until he was what everyone else wanted him to._

“So he’s not just clever and funny and handsome, but caring and hard-working. I have no doubt that he’ll be a great husband and an even better father.”

_A compilation of every little word, every little compliment someone threw his way. A mirror of everyone else’s hopes and expectations and projections._

“Nikandros enhances all of his best qualities. He’s equally hard-working and grounded, and I couldn’t imagine anyone else to be Jord’s soulmate.”

_Selfless and sweet and lovable._

“There’s something special about them. They go together without forcing it. They love each other without fighting it. And they care about each other without thinking about it.”

_Because he was, for a long time, so unlovable._

“Jord wakes up in the morning with his heart beating, his lungs breathing and his entire body loving Nikandros. It just is. And that’s nothing short of beautiful.”

_This is how you broke my heart, and how I finally let you go._

“I wish you years and years of happiness and love. To Jord and Nikandros.”

_This is how I say goodbye to you, Jord._

***

Nicaise said, “This is painful to watch.” and Laurent, undoubtedly, agreed with a single nod of his head. 

Aimeric’s best man speech had taken the last remnants of his composure. When his voice broke a bit at the end, Jord seemed touched, mistakenly taking Aimeric’s teary eyes for platonic affection and not the climax of his heartbreak. 

As soon as the toast was over, the party resumed. Laurent and Nicaise watched Jord embracing Aimeric, whispering something in his ear that made Aimeric smile, then disappear out of the ballroom. 

They found him smoking in one of the secluded, empty balconies that opened to the lake. Windows wide open, letting in a breath of gelid air. He looked so boyish then, so much younger than what he actually was, standing against a pillar with a hand to his forehead rubbing on a single spot and the other holding a cigarette.

Laurent knew he could say a million things and none of them would actually help. He knew he could hug Aimeric and say he was sorry but it wouldn’t matter. He knew he could call out his name and get angry and make a scene, just to take his friend out of his obvious stupor, but it wouldn’t make a difference. 

~~And he hated himself. He blamed himself. What had Aimeric done all night? Where had he been while he ran off with Damen to play their stupid little game?~~

~~Oh this is your fault, Laurent de Vere. This is what you do, what you’ve always done.~~

When Aimeric heard them approach, he looked up, then sighed and closed his eyes, “I don't want to hear it so if you are going to reproach me then better save ourselves some time.”

Nicaise visibly tensed up. For a minute, Laurent was sure he would end up leaving at once, instead he just walked up to Aimeric and asked for his lighter, then took out a cigarette of his own. 

Laurent followed him, aware of their eyes on him. The temptation to ask for a cigarette was stronger than he imagined after so long, but he knew he’d be sick to his stomach if he so much as took a drag. He could relish on the lingering smell of it, as gross as it was. “It was a nice speech. Jord seemed pleased.”

Aimeric scoffed, blew a cloud of smoke towards the window, “It was more of a cry for help.”

“Well, that's why I'm here.”

His best friend’s eyes turned to his shoes as he nodded. His cheeks and nose were turning pink due to the cold. When he looked up, he tried for a smile before taking another drag, “Thank you.” 

“I thought we quit smoking.”

Laughing bitterly, “Yes. Only because Jord found us that one time and scolded us rather harshly.” 

“It was scary, probably because we were both high.”

Nicaise laughed at that, clearly remembering. It was a rare thing when Nicaise laughed genuinely and so it was funny and bubbly, the sound reverberating on the too-high ceilings. 

Laurent chuckled and so did Aimeric, who kicked Nicaise lightly, playfully, “What is that? You can actually laugh?”

“We’re all going to die tomorrow,” Laurent said. 

“Oh you can both fuck off.” Nicaise replied, stubbing out his cigarette on the marble of the railing. “Now let’s go back inside, it’s too bloody cold out here.”

***

The rest of the party continued as you would expect any wedding reception: they danced, and they ate and they drank. 

And drank.

Because the beauty of weddings relied not just on the celebrating of those who could, but also the mourning of some, and the boredom and the need to escape to a better place for at least one night. Everyone had a story, except for that night.

For that night, people were granted empty canvases. Nothing mattered, not as it should. People met people — they talked, they cried, they hooked up, they laughed. Stories to tell over hangover brunch the next day.

Laurent couldn’t recall what led to make out in a corner, except the mere instinctively want of it. He and Damen talked for a while and held hands and smiled silly smiles because they were both drunk and sappy, their reunion sinking in at last. 

It’d taken no less than Damen whispering sweet nothings in his ear while having him pressed against him for Laurent’s brain to melt into a puddle. 

_You smell good._

_I want to kiss you._

He wasn’t counting on them not being able to stop. He wasn’t counting on desiring so much of Damen to not fall into him so deep like he had. He was drowning. 

_Kiss me, then._

He feared he’d never be able to come out. He feared he’d never want to. 

When he pulled away, he felt too hot and his heart was stuck somewhere in his throat. Damen reached over gently, ran a hand through his hair, combing it away from his face. 

“Are you okay?”

~~_No._ ~~

~~_I need you to tell me._ ~~

~~_I need you to want me._ ~~

~~_I need you to see me._ ~~

“Yeah,” he smiled, “I just need some water. Maybe some cake too.”

“Cake?” Damen’s eyes went to the desserts table, where the cake still stood. Jord and Nikandros had yet to cut it. 

When his eyes went back to Laurent’s, this one handed him the box, “Steal me some, would you?” 

Damen’s concern was replaced by amusement. He took the box, kissed his head, “Anything for you, angel.”

The cake was guarded by one of the girls Damen had seen in Aimeric’s pastry shop. She was dressed in uniform, smiling and handing over different food to people, while keeping eyes on the exuberant four-stories ivory cake. 

He had to wait for a few minutes until she was busy helping cupcakes to a pair of kids for him to sneak and cut a piece of the cake. It was when he was placing the piece on a paper plate that he noticed a presence next to him.

Aimeric hummed, then whispered rather loudly, “Whatcha doing?” 

Damen stopped. “Nothing.”

“Ruining my cake, are you?”

“I—”

Aimeric laughed, visibly drunk out of his mind, “Did Laurent _dare_ you?”

“Yes, he did actually.”

“Okay, well, since you’re at it: cut me a piece too. I worked hard on it, I think I do deserve a big slice.”

Damen looked around, making sure no one else was watching, before nodding and cutting another slice. Aimeric went away, happily eating cake with his fingers and stumbling on chairs until he finally made it to a table. 

Laurent was waiting for him just where he’d left him; standing with his back pressed to a wall and squinting his blind eyes at him, glasses resting on his head.

“What was that about?” he asked as Damen handed spoon-fed him a piece of cake.

“He wanted cake too.”

Laurent licked cream from his lips as his frown grew deeper, “Oh.” He was quiet for a second, enough for Damen to try and remember how much they’d drank, “I wanted to thank you,” he said softly, “For taking care of him. He mentioned you helped with the planning.”

“Well, you told me he was in love with someone that was getting married. So when I came back and saw him planning their wedding I put two and two together. I felt bad that he was doing it all alone.”

“You didn't have to,” and then, “Thank you, Damen.”

Laurent smiled as he said it, Damen smiled back.

“Don’t thank me. He’s your best friend isn’t he?”

“People pleaser,” Laurent whispered before kissing him, “I hate that about you.”

“Really? What else do you hate about me?”

“Everything. I hate everything about you.”

“I hate you too,” Damen said, the cake forgotten on a table besides them. 

“How much?”

“As much as you hate me.”

It was the right thing to say, he knew, when Laurent pressed their lips together again. It was the right thing to say, the right thing to feel. It was a little joke, all part of the game.

Damen smiled against Laurent’s lips, then took icing with his finger and slided it down the bridge of Laurent’s nose, who pushed him away laughing. It tasted sweet when they kissed sponge cake and icing from each other’s faces. 

But hate often turned to love, and love turned to hate, and when both feelings became one, it was suddenly impossible to discern one from the other.

***

The night ended when Laurent went to the bathroom. 

It was not how he had expected it all to go, but it was still one of those strange moments where the world rearranges itself and suddenly everything starts to make sense again. 

He’d left Damen because he needed to pee after drinking three glasses of water to contrarest the industrial amounts of sugar and alcohol he’d consumed so far. He sobered up immediately, however, when he understood the scene before him. 

_What the fuck._

_What the actual fuck._

Aimeric was kissing the priest. Or the priest was kissing him. Laurent was too stunned to know which and too defensive to care. 

Should he leave? Should he stay? Should he beat up the priest against one of the stalls? 

They separated when the door shut close behind him and the sound made them both jump. Standing against the wall, they stared at him, breathing hard and Laurent set his jaw. Whatever anger he felt he knew could be unjustified and yet he had the sudden urge to hit someone. 

We all know who.

Aimeric’s face was sickly pale. He was swallowing hard and breathing through his nose, as if trying really hard not to vomit. Next to him, the priest, dressing in all black, was avoiding his eyes. He looked younger, Laurent realized. Early to mid thirties at most. A handsome face if you could forget the shame of what he’d done. 

Laurent was going to kill him.

“I kissed him.” Aimeric said, quickly, reading his mind. “It’s my fault. I did it.”

And Laurent heard the meaning behind the words. _Don’t say anything. Don’t judge me. Don’t hurt him._ So he didn’t. He waited until Aimeric told the priest to go and this barely spared him a glance as he left hurriedly, cursing under his breath.

Once alone, Aimeric lasted only a minute before rushing to the toilet to throw up. Laurent came to stand beside him, a hand on his back as Aimeric heaved painfully. 

“We don’t have to talk about it,” he said. 

Aimeric coughed and spat, then inhaled before being able to answer, sarcastically, “Yeah right.”

“You know I don’t like talking.”

“Not about _your_ issues, no.”

“At least it was just me, Mer.”

That made it worse. Aimeric’s head lowered further down the toilet. “Yes,” he said, catching his breath, “From everyone in this wedding, it just had to be you.”

“Would it have been better if it was Jord’s grandfather?”

“God, Laurent, I hate you.”

He sat upright after that, the back of his hand to his mouth as he flushed the toilet. When their eyes met, Laurent handed him a stack of paper towels, “I'm not judging.”

“Are you not?” he whispered, “Really?”

“Well, I'm very drunk so I'm not there yet.” he admitted.

Lip quivering, Aimeric sat down, holding his face in his hands. “It was a stupid mistake,” he said, and then started crying, “I’ve been so lonely.” And, “Why am I so unlovable?”

And it was too much at once. Maybe because he was very drunk and tired and in love with Damen and the night they’d spent together. Because he was just as worried as Aimeric was, and he’d been so for a long time. Because he’d left Aimeric alone for so long. His heart broke with his. 

And he didn’t have the power to put it back together. No one had. 

When Damen entered after a while, clearly worried, he found them on the floor, Aimeric sobbing as he said words neither of them could understand. Laurent sent him a sad smile before sending him out to find Nicaise. 

It took them a long time to calm Aimeric down and even longer to convince him to get up. Nicaise, who was even drunker than Laurent was, gave up trying to get any answers on what exactly had happened and just focused on getting his driver to the venue as fast as he could. 

Once the three of them managed to get Aimeric in the car, Laurent remembered Damen’s suggestion before any of this could unfold. When he’d kissed his hand sweetly, asked him if he wanted to go, spend the night somewhere else. 

So he stopped for a moment as the car waited for him, took Damen’s hands in his. Apologetically, “I need to take him home.”

Nodding, Damen said, “I understand, you have to take care of him.” Then, Laurent felt Damen’s hand travel down to his lower back before pulling him closer. The kiss was on his forehead, chaste and sweet. 

Smiling at the gesture, he said, “I had fun.”

“I did too.” 

“Call me?”

“Yes of course, angel.”

“Promise.”

“I swear.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.” Then, a kiss on his cheek, “I’m going to let you go now.”

_Don’t let me go._

_Don’t let me leave. Ask me to stay. Make me stay._

Laurent let go with a nod. Damen closed the door after him and stood at the entrance as the car drove away. 

“Took your time,” Nicaise said. Aimeric was sitting between them in the back seat. He wasn’t asleep but he had his eyes closed, rest leant back against the smooth leather seat. 

For a good part of the journey, neither of them spoke, the air tense with each’s clouded thoughts, colliding. It wouldn’t be good to talk, but Aimeric broke the silence first, “I should have never helped him,” he whispered, voice rough, “I’m so stupid, I shouldn’t have come either.”

But when Laurent tried to say something, anything, Aimeric opened his eyes and looked at him. He didn’t seem mad and the words weren’t meant to be cruel. 

Perhaps a bit resentful and a bit envious, but not on purpose. It was, to Aimeric, just a way to push him away. 

“You wouldn’t understand,” he said, “You have Damen.”

It worked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this is very long.
> 
> And the longest, I suspect, of the whole fic. Every time I say that, though, I tend to prove myself wrong :sighs: 
> 
> But anyway, hello! It took me a looooong time to finish this which means that unfortunately I haven't begun working on my next chapter. So I can't say I know when exactly I'll have it ready -- hopefully in a week or two. (maybe three, we'll see)
> 
> Just wanted to say a big thank you for welcoming me back with such lovely comments and theories about what's gonna happen next! I enjoy reading them so much. ♡ Thank you as always to lovely lovely Ellen for editing and lovely lovely demon-friend for all her help. We've been thinking about this chapter since Linger started last year -- a dream to finally have it written!
> 
> Have a nice weekend and see you guys soon-ish ♡
> 
> ***
> 
> "(Why then,) Can one desire too much of a good thing?" quote taken from "As You Like It" by William Shakespeare. 
> 
> "Because you can’t run away from home without destroying somebody’s world." quote taken from "MirrorMask" by Neil Gaiman.
> 
> "So close to reaching that famous happy end / Almost believing this one's not pretend / And now you're beside me, and look how far we've come" & "How could I face the faceless days / If I should lose you now? / We're so close to reaching that famous happy end / Almost believing this one's not pretend / Let's go on dreaming, though we know we are / So close, and still so far." lyrics taken from ["So Close" ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5UtnXJy5b5I)by Jon McLaughlin from the movie "Enchanted"
> 
> And a small piece of info, as I've mentioned before, my Marlas is based off Budapest, Hungary, where I lived for two years. The basilica I (failed) to describe here is basically [St. Stephen's Basilica](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/St._Stephen%27s_Basilica), in case you wanna take a look at the actual thing. It's very beautiful and they do celebrate weddings there.


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